


A Blind Woman and an Elephant

by sanguia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, But also, Character Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Femdom, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gender Role Reversal, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Malesub, Master/Slave, Matriarchal society, Matriarchy, Maybe - Freeform, Mental Instability, Non-Sexual Submission, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Period Typical Misandry, Plotty, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Rated E for Everyone needs therapy, Recovery, Sex won't happen for a while cause we got PLOT, Sexual Slavery, Slow Burn, Submissive Male, That's the new best tag, Unhealthy Relationships, Worldbuilding, boy howdy is there angst, bruh these characters are a mess lmao, but there's no actual pregnancy, me and my dramatic ass writing, that eventually become healthy, the rape tag is for flashbacks, tokophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 199,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguia/pseuds/sanguia
Summary: Frea Valentine is an aspiring photographer with dreams of achieving grandeur. While serving in the army as a translator she finds inspiration in the most unusual of places: A battered, frightened slave. She's immediately infatuated with his vulnerability, and she decides she wants him as her muse.As their fumbling relationship deepens a sudden and tragic event uproots the both of them, and they're quickly forced to deal with the consequences as well as battle their own personal demons.A story set in a matriarchal world. Very plot-heavy with copious amounts of worldbulding and lore, and an emphasis on recovering from trauma and mental illness. If you want a smut filled story you'll have to look elsewhere.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 118
Kudos: 252





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had posted this story a while ago but deleted it (along with my account). Out of the six chapters I had before deleting, this one is the most that I've changed. The core plot is still the same. If you had read this story before I still recommend you read this first chapter.
> 
> Most notable changes are:  
> Almost the entirety of the beginning. This is to establish the level of technology of this world and also my attempt to make Frea more of a likable character (She's less abrasive but she's still a dumbass, but hopefully in an endearing way now).  
> Emily Lavelle (the medic) has been renamed to Lauretta Elader. I've added some banter with her and Frea as well.  
> Frea is a photographer instead of a writer now.  
> I had some dumbass subplot about Frea realizing that Utreau isn't actually /that/ bad or something, and I've decided to do away with that since it had no bearing on the actual plot.
> 
> The title is from an ancient Indian parable in which the moral "is that humans have a tendency to claim absolute truth based on their limited, subjective experience as they ignore other people's limited, subjective experiences which may be equally true" (thanks wikipedia).

The sun had barely risen, and yet an Utrite soldier began to fall like snow.

Frea’s senses are immediately sharpened from hearing the gunshot ring in the air, she holds her breath, watching the body fall. It was as though everything moved in slow motion, and when the soldier hits the ground with a resounding  _ thump,  _ time moves like normal again. The shooter holsters her gun, face impassive, and barks an order to three other women before putting her focus back on her quarry— a contingent of Utritian prisoners of war currently being loaded in a train carriage.

Frea’s fingers tingle, and she instinctively brings her hand to her left breast pocket to where her folding camera is hidden away. She bites her lip, eyes still trained on the body several feet away. 

That was a missed opportunity.

An image of the Utrite’s body suspended in mid-air, a spray of blood as the bullet exits her head, and the Asnainian general still pointing at her… would have been  _ perfect.  _ Poetic, even. Something that perfectly encapsulates Utritian cowardice and Asnainian dominance— this Utrite was someone trying to flee and she was righteously put down. 

She ignores the fact this is the first time she’s seen someone get killed.

A sigh escapes Frea’s lips. She had  _ just  _ come off the train and was greeted by a photo opportunity only to be left frozen by the sudden sound of a gunshot. That is unacceptable! She’s a damned war photographer! She cannot allow herself to become tense like that again, not when there’s work to be done—

Her shoulders jump at the raucous, metallic shriek that heralds the departure of the train she just stepped off of. In the midst of the noise there’s a shrill whistle from the stocky station guard with beckoning hands telling people to move away from the platform, though her movements are stiff, as if gripped by age and arthritis. 

Frea sighs again, this time with annoyance. She must be impervious to noise. She bloody trained herself for that. 

She closes her eyes to send a quick prayer to Acadia, asking the Holy Mother to give her strength, and begins moving with steady and practiced steps to her destination— Her posture is perfect, thank you very much. By this point, the body of the Utrite is being moved away, and Asnainian soldiers stand around, at ease, but still armed. When she hears the heavy-spirited drumroll of a march of another group of soldiers, her quickly growing excitement replaces her initial embarrassment. 

The sound bleeds, rumbling, into the very bones of the ground and presses into her bootheels at each pace, drowning out each and every wandering thought with an insistent beating akin to one's heart. It is unflinching; unwavering; unfaltering— just as it should be. It is the persistent single-mindedness of iron will of the Asnainian army and Frea decides this group is another perfect photo opportunity. As quick as she’s able, she takes her vest pocket camera out, unfolding the highly polished brass looking cylinder of its lens and snapping a quick shot. 

She doesn’t take the moment to appraise her photo, because she knows she has an urgent meeting to attend. She keeps walking, zig-zagging her way through crowds while straightening out her uniform to make sure she’s presentable. At times, she attempts to match the stride of the marching soldiers. 

Soon, she reaches a tent at the edge of the train station. Frea shows her identification to a guard, and upon entering, she nearly trips over the nest of wires. There are oscillators, amplifiers and the electron tubes— all contraptions she doesn’t really understand. Radio transmitters are an invention still in its infancy, having only been created in the final months of the war. 

Frea watches with bewilderment as a woman taps something on a transmitter, a code no doubt, but the quick sounds almost put her in a trance. It’s all so impressive! Frea wishes she could have joined the war effort sooner to have had her own chance to learn more about this strange machine. 

Her back goes ramrod straight when a woman who looks almost three times her age walks in front of her. Recognizing the red-crowned crane emblem that signifies the woman is a commanding officer, Frea puts her right fist over her heart in a salute. 

“General Esme Winthrope! Matriarch Winthrope!” She greets, “My name is Frea Alexandrina Panthea Eirene Valentine. I will be accompanying your squadron to Minerva Manor.” She bows, heart thumping with anticipation. Winthrope, like her, is a noble. Not only that, one of her daughters is engaged to Frea’s eldest brother, Marcus. As such, she feels a heightened sense of duty knowing she will be working with a new ally to her family. 

She must be perfect. She must be a Valentine.

Winthrope raises a single brow. A scar crosses her left eye, to where her ear used to be. Her index finger constantly twitches as she’s pulling an invisible trigger, and her dark brown eyes glare at her like she’s trying to ascertain if Frea is a liable ally or a traitor.

It makes sweat form on Frea’s brow. She prays her nervousness isn’t evident on her face. That would be humiliating. 

_ Oh, Acadia, give me strength! _

It doesn’t help that there’s a wave of heat in this tent. Utreau as a whole is significantly warmer than her home country of Asnain, and the humidity certainly doesn’t help her growing discomfort. Nonetheless, she keeps her back straight and face impassive. 

Apparently oblivious to her internal plight, Winthrope finally speaks with a flat tone. 

“Ah, right. You’re the translator. You’ve been briefed about where you’re going, yeah? Go board the carriage at the southern gate. And just call me Winthrope, or Esme. I’ve never been good with titles.”

Frea nods once, “Yessir.” She has to stop herself from smiling giddily at the thought of her very first assignment, “I am also a photographer. While I know my first duty will be to translate Utritian documents, I will also be taking some pictures. Rest assured, I will conduct myself worthy of an Asnainian soldier. And a noble.” She bows once more.

She clenches her jaw and fists, the growing heat of the place beginning to become a major nuisance. Frea resists the urge at pulling at her shirt collar or waving a hand in front of her face— that would be grossly inappropriate. Not the way someone from her station should conduct herself at all. 

When she’s about to turn and leave, Esme— Goddess, it feels so very improper just calling her by her first name— comments, “You know you can take off your coat if it’s too warm, right? It’ll only get hotter from here.”

Frea knits her brows for a split second before relaxing her face. Was that… an attempt to jest? 

She shakes her head, her soft auburn curls swaying in the movement, and her response is automatic. “And risk an Utritian ingrate stealing it while my attention is diverted elsewhere? I’d rather allow the perspiration to surface on my forehead, my cheeks, the bridge of my nose, and run in rivulets down my face until I become sodden.”

Frea lips twitch upwards just a smidge. Yes, that was perfect. She and Esme will laugh over their shared hatred of the Utrites, and the bond between their families will strengthen.

No laughter comes. Instead, Esme’s expression shows no emotion. The awkward seconds quickly become unbearable, and Frea thinks she’s just done a serious social faux-pas she wasn’t even aware of. An apology is on her lips, but Esme interrupts her.

“Uh huh.”   
  


And with that, the older woman turns her attention back to the radio. 

Left speechless by the interaction, Frea shifts on her feet for a few more seconds before leaving with a tad more haste than that’s necessary. 

Her mind is filled with what just happened. She replays the brief conversation in her head, wondering what she could have said instead. 

_ What did I do wrong? Was I unprofessional? Oh goddess, I hope this doesn’t affect Esme’s perception of my family... _

If Frea’s mother wasn’t so rigorous with her etiquette, she would have begun chewing her nails because of the anxiety. She does, however, knit her brows in consternation. She can’t allow this to affect her patriotic duty, and she’s sure she’ll have many opportunities to prove herself to Esme. 

Yes, it’s no issue. 

She walks to the southern gate with steps that are less steady than before.

* * *

Frea continues to incessantly think about her interaction with Esme while riding the carriage.

How frustrating. She always had a habit of overthinking conversations long after they finished, but she can’t help it. She must conduct herself as a Valentine, and that includes being able to speak properly, among other things she secretly doesn’t want to think about—

“What's wrong with your face?”

One of Frea’s hands instinctively goes to her face, horrible images crossing her mind at the thought that she didn’t properly cover her face with make-up. To think someone would actually make a comment on it.

She turns her head and is greeted with a smiling freckled face. The red cross on the woman’s helmet indicates she’s the medic, and she extends her hand towards Frea. 

“Howdy dowdy! The name’s Lauretta. But you can call me Lau. Or Etta. Or La-la. Whichever is more your fancy.”

Frea fancies none of them. 

Blinking furiously as she tries to understand this woman’s greeting, or why she’s even speaking with her in the first place, Frea almost hesitantly takes her hand in a shake. 

“...Charmed to make your acquaintance, Lauretta.” She says at length.

Lauretta gives her a toothy grin, and Frea notes that she’s missing one of her canines. Like almost everyone else in this carriage, she slouches, her hair is unkempt and her words are utterly witless.

Definitely a country bumpkin. 

Thinking about her posture, Frea sits like a dancer, erect and graceful. She puts her hands on her crossed legs and points her chin up. This woman may have surprised her with the sudden greeting, but she decides it was a welcome distraction from her anxiety filled thoughts. Frea takes out her camera, cleaning the lens with a piece of cloth. 

For reasons beyond Frea's comprehension, Lauretta continues to speak to her.

“You looked so mad. I was wonderin’ if you were one of those types that had a permanent scowl, y’know? You’re one of those nobles, right?”

Frea feels some relief knowing that Lauretta wasn’t actually making a comment on the state of her makeup. Her blemishes are indeed still covered up, good. Her nescience is refreshing.

Lauretta may be a commoner, but it would be rude not to at least answer her. 

“Yes,” Frea answers, “I am part of the illustrious Valentine family. We’re lawmakers and the trusted confidants of the Empress.” Granted, she’s never actually met her monarch, nor has her mother allowed her to engage in politics. 

Whether or not the medic understands the magnitude of her family name, she doesn’t know, but the woman goes  _ ‘ooooooh’  _ and Frea isn’t sure if she’s supposed to take that as an insult or not.

“Lawmakers huh… So, politicians?”

Frea waggles her finger at the woman. “Aha! We are much more than just that. We have a long, storied legacy of advising the Empresses of Asnain since time immemorial as part of the Cult of Acadia! We understand the ebb and flow of power.” She crosses her arms, a proud smile twitching at her lips, “One day, I will inherit the ruby Amulet of Acadian Faith, a pendant worn by all Valentine Matriarchs. It is an ancient family relic of divine investiture.”

So it is said in many ancient scriptures, her family is touched by Acadia herself, and it is her holy will that justifies the Valentine’s continuing rule in their territory. 

Lauretta, for her part, listens to her as if her words are golden. Now she lets out a long  _ ‘aaaaah,’  _ before nodding. “Yeah? What fancy political stuff do you do?”

Despite her proudly talking of her family’s history, a strike of nervousness hits her. She suddenly feels like a jackdaw touting stolen peacock feathers.

Frea pushes her feelings aside with a smile. “Nothing— Nothing you could understand, I assure you.”

“Heh, fair enough. So what’s someone like you doin’ all the way out there?” 

“I am here as an Utritian translator for some documents. However I also have another patriotic duty to uphold,” she holds her camera up, “As a photographer. As someone with a wholehearted love for Asnain’s rolling mountains and pure white snow, I have always imbibed in my hobby of taking pictures.” 

Her voice quickly becomes tinged with excitement, “Now, in our country’s hour of need, I hope to document the war effort; so that generations ahead of us may remember the deeds of our brave soldiers. Acadia promotes beauty and the creation of art, the composing and performance of music, and the writing of literature. As the ultimate creator, she wants her children to do the same,  _ create! _ I wish to do my part in giving this world more beauty by photographing our greatest heroes.”

Frea lets out a breath, feeling her heart palpitate in her chest. Ah, she always got a little  _ too  _ excited when talking about her true, dormant virtue. Around her, she knows the other commoner soldiers listening to her, with some snickering behind their hands. How very churlish of them, but Frea doesn’t respond to their bait.

Lauretta nods slowly, taking her words in. For some reason, she smiles sheepishly at Frea, making a vague hand gesture she doesn’t understand. “Um…” she says, “but... The war is over?”

Frea can’t quite suppress the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes. I am aware, but that does not mean there won’t be opportunities for me to execute my duty with aplomb even if the fighting is over. There are still many stories to capture with my lenses, of that I am certain.” She smiles, “I was inspired by the Asnainian Army Art Programme, the Empress had commissioned 600 artists to document the front lines but alas, I was too young to join. Nevertheless, I hope to make my country proud.”

She returns her attention to cleaning her camera. Lauretta takes the hint, and the conversation ends. Frea sighs through her nose, remembering how she wanted to join the war much sooner. She wanted to be on the frontlines, to take up arms for Acadia’s everlasting glory. However, the minimum age to enroll for nobles is twenty, while it is sixteen for commoners. Such a ghastly law.

And when she just turned twenty, the war  _ ended!  _ Not only that, mother did all she could to prevent her from entering the war in the first place, and even friends and relatives Frea thought were patriots avoided the draft. It was both terribly shocking and disappointing. 

_ “What are we if not the stories we tell, my children?”  _ She remembers reading that passage in holy scripture. It had given her an epiphany, making her realize her life’s desire to document those very stories through photography. A century later, she will no longer exist, but her photos will and it could even influence future people’s deeds.

She wants to leave her mark in the world, just like a proper Valentine and a daughter of Acadia. 

Frea pats off invisible dirt on her coat, the heat of the carriage teetering on the edge of being unbearable. 

No one speaks with her for the duration of the ride, not that she had much interest in conversing with the peanut gallery. Soon, however, a silence lingers in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket. Frea didn’t like silence like this. The lackadaisical ennui of reticence could cause someone to go insane.

The silence continues to feel stagnating. It felt unnatural. A void that refused to be filled. Now she’s stuck with the desire to speak with someone, or to keep quiet. What an awkward and insufferable conundrum.

Frea decides to pray for the rest of the ride. It takes them three days to reach their destination.

* * *

The humidity was still stifling, but having the carriage door opened felt like a blessing in disguise. After Lauretta exits Frea makes sure to keep her movements measured and precise so as to not show her eagerness. From the corner of her eyes she sees the other soldiers dismount from their horses. The fighting may be over, but they’ve brought a small army for an abandoned home in the middle of nowhere just in case there’s any leftover Utritian upstarts.

The sun’s beginning to set. With how the manor is silhouetted against the dusk it looks especially gloomy. This area had seen combat. The craters on that littered ground for miles made that obvious. It’s a miracle the house itself wasn’t destroyed in the grenade bombings that’s happened here. All the windows were shattered and the surrounding fence was reduced to rubble. Some of the slates on the roof had fallen away and exposed part of a rafter. The golden-tawny grass the country is known for is also now dead; no longer a vibrant yellow but more a dull shade of apple crunch laying on the floor.

The country is withering away after receiving such a beating from Asnain. That much is evident. The landscape is a sickly skin laid over bones that should remain hidden.

So dreary. So incredibly dreary and Frea already misses her home and bed. 

She shakes herself when a gust of dry wind hits her, and she wrings her hands together to dispel further useless thoughts. This is the home of a chemist that provided no shortage of trouble for Asnainian forces. Minerva, Frea thinks her name was. Not like that’s important, she was executed like the rest of her ilk. 

All they have to do is rummage around and find any important documents. Minerva was a thorn on Asnain’s side, so perhaps there is some hidden technology waiting to be discovered inside. If there’s anything left, that is, since surely some soldiers used this house as shelter when the fighting was happening. Frea’s hands twitch on her camera, and she takes a quick photo of the home.

Regardless if there’s anything useful inside, this manor will become their base of operations for a few days. Perhaps Frea can make this her home away from home for the time being.

A hand briefly invades her field of vision and there’s a flick of a finger on her forehead, the suddenness of the action making her stagger backwards.

Frea makes an indignant noise, and Esme’s face is now in front of her. The older woman leans in, voice no more a whisper and face mostly blank. 

“Don’t focus too much on photos. You’re here for translation.”

Frea freezes, the cogs in her mind working on overdrive as it replays Esme’s words. Her muscles begin to feel rigid and she thinks a vein might pop.

_ H-How rude! _

Esme appraises the rest of the soldiers, her voice now booming as she addresses the crowd. “Stay in teams and look for anything useful. Watch out for the traps, they’re marked on your maps. We’ll be setting up camp here so make sure to be thorough.”

The crowd begins to disperse. Frea follows, breathing in heavily and biting down on her anger and swallows it, just how she was taught. She almost clicks her tongue and decides to slow her breathing. Anger was such an ugly emotion. Acadia preaches beauty. She had to be beautiful both inside and out, even if under her make-up she—

This time, she does click her tongue. She’s thinking too much like she always is. Esme is such a bizarre woman.

She creeps through the skeleton of the battered building. She makes no eye-contact with her fellow soldiers and walks fast.

* * *

The manor, unsurprisingly, is a complete disaster inside. Clearly it’s been ransacked before and Frea wonders how useful of a translator she’ll be in this situation. At least since this’ll be an unofficial base she’ll likely have documents from other places sent to her.

She studies her, well, study. Her office for the time being. She’s been looking around with the other soldiers she’s with, but most of the books here are pointless fiction. She doesn’t even want to read a snippet of those. She doubts Utritians are capable of creating any sort of respectable art. Unfortunately, she might have to. In case if there’s any… secret messages hiding in plain sight. 

She can’t help but think the chaos of the manor’s interior is reminiscent of this country’s politics. What was once a vassal nation became its own country when its people executed and enslaved its foreign rulers. The bloodshed hardly stopped there. The heads of the ministers and the elected Queen of its new government rolled down the steps of the guillotine. It’s been like that for centuries now. New governments rising, only to be torn down by rebellions. The one thing that’s been consistent is their enduring belief that only the strong may rule the weak, and justified their belief in slavery.

Not only that, they also allow men into the army. Men! They may be capable of gaining muscle, and can even become strong, but Acadia didn’t create men for their intelligence. It’s a wonder how Asnain wasn’t able to end the war sooner if they were fighting against male soldiers.

In the midst of those thoughts, she can’t help but stop her rummaging and begin thinking about her brothers, Marcus and Nathaniel. Frea could never see them being in the army. She loves them both dearly, and they’re both simply too fragile for any military work.

She sighs, now sitting at a desk and skimming through various books and papers. Ah, Marcus. The baby of the family, despite being the oldest sibling. She had caught him with a stablegirl who had him bent over while she… rutted inside him with a phallic toy. No one knows of their salacious affair except for her, because he had begged her to not tell anyone and said he was still a virgin where it counted. She couldn’t really bring herself to tell mother about it when he was in the middle of throwing a crying fit. 

She did, however, privately and discreetly fire that stablegirl. Made up something about her stealing stirrups. She absolutely could not allow Marcus to keep seeing her. He already has an awkward enough reputation because he constantly trips over himself, but if he had been caught by anyone else when he was doing  _ that?  _ Goddess preserve her.

That stablegirl was corrupting him. If she had him in her clutches for any longer his life would have been ruined. 

And getting rid of the stablegirl  _ worked,  _ because he’s now engaged to a reputable woman from an upstanding family. It seems he had forgotten about her catching him in the act, because last she saw him he was all giddy and ecstatic over the prospect of being wed.

_ No. Men aren’t to be fought. They’re to be protected.  _

Frea adds what seems like the fiftieth book to the pile. So far, nothing important has cropped up. 

Then she thinks of Marcus. He’s supposed to be joining the Winthrope family soon. She needs to have a proper chat with his fiance one day, especially since Esme isn’t exactly giving her the best opinion of her family.

She adds another book to the pile, this one is only a collection of fairy tales as far as she can tell. No documents or diagrams of the contraptions of the chemist made for the war. Yet. She’ll find her secrets at some point, Frea is sure of it. She scans the room and watches the soldiers look around the place.

It might be a good photo opportunity. Perhaps something for a newspaper.

Frea’s lips turn downwards.

Esme is there, and she’d rather not get another flick to the forehead. What on earth was that about, anyway?

And when she looks around the room again, she decides there’s nothing to get inspiration from here. Back home she always listened to her favourite musicians to find inspiration for writing. Despite that, she always feels like she’s missing something. It feels like she’s blind to the one thing she needed but she can never figure out what it is. Restlessness now gnaws at her. 

There’s just so much stuff she has to think about now. So much to mull over—

“This is the ugliest sword and shield I’ve ever seen.”

Turning her head, Frea sees Lauretta again. Frea assumes what she’s looking for is some type of family heirloom or crest with how it hangs on the battered wall. Looking closer, it has the image of a hog on it, and it’s… bumpy. Like it had been hammered improperly or hit. It  _ is _ pretty displeasing to look at. 

“Yes. The people of Utreau aren’t known for being artisans, after all.” She says with a bit of mirth in her voice.

Taking another look at the shield, Frea realizes what it means. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Esme walk up the stairs.

“That hog. It’s Gerilin. Goddess of war. Supposedly she would wither away into nothingness if there were no battles to be fought. The Utrites believe that a part of her soul resides in every weapon that is forged in these lands.” 

Lauretta hums and tilts her head. “That’s kinda cool, actually. Where’d you learn that?”

‘Cool’ is such a crass term, but Frea ignores it. “I read.”

The medic snorts and barks out a laugh.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever finished a book in my entire life, haha.”

...That was more crass than before. Frea opts to keep looking at the books, creasing her brows in annoyance when she continues to not find anything important. 

“Valentine! Get over here, now!”

Frea, as well as every other soldier in the room, practically jumps when Esme’s booming voice reverberates across the entire manor. So loud was her voice that it made the sword and shield on the wall shudder like it was going to fall. 

Then, silence. Everyone in the room just looks at each other like frightened hares, before turning their attention to Frea. She thinks she might feel a bead of sweat form on her forehead with the sudden attention. At the same time, there’s something of a tingle that overtakes her body. 

_ She specifically called for me. _

Finally, a favourable turn of events!

She doesn’t wait for anyone else. She immediately knocks her chair back when she stands and bolts for where she heard Esme’s voice coming from.

* * *

  
Rapid footsteps echo around the manor as Frea and her small contingent of guards run up the stairs to reach where her commanding officer is. When she sifts through a small crowd in front of a room, she spots Esme and looks at where she’s staring at—

“A-An Utrite soldier—!” Frea reaches for the gun holstered in her coat, when she’s about to point it at the individual cowering before her, Esme grasps her wrist and practically bends her arm in half. Frea, much to her own dismay, lets out a shrill yelp at the sudden rough treatment.

“No you idiot,” the older woman hisses, “He’s a slave. He’s got a collar around his neck.”

Frea closes her mouth hard enough she hears an audible click. She opens it again, only to close it. It’s only when Esme lets go of her wrist does she realize she should probably have a look at the person in question rather than gawk at her superior officer like a dullard. She was just so taken aback from being called an idiot to her face. Not a good look.  _ At all.  _

She awkwardly holsters her gun back. Shame and anger from having her arm twisted in front of an audience makes her face feel red hot and awful. She tries to level her breathing, and distantly Esme signals and whispers something and the other soldiers filter out of the room and close the door, presumably standing right outside in case anything happens.

She finally takes a good, proper look at the man currently hiding in some old, decrepit closet. He’s sitting, knees at his chest as she hunches over himself in an apparent attempt to make himself look smaller. He’s utterly filthy, clothes in tatters and his body shivering violently from what Frea assumes is abject terror. His wild tuft of hair, while also completely grimy and dirty, is a golden blond. Would actually be a good colour, if he were clean in the slightest. His  _ eyes, _ however…

_ Goddess, they’re pretty. _

His eyes are a glimmering colour of emerald, like the hues of a forest, rimmed cooly with dark moss. Their brightness is a stark contrast to everything else about him. And they’re big, but that’s probably because his eyes currently look like they’re about to pop out of their sockets with how he gapes at her. When Frea’s eyes go down, there is indeed a collar strapped around his neck. 

Then, she voices her next observation, her voice a low whisper. 

“He… doesn’t look as emaciated as I would expect someone in his position would be.”

Behind her, Esme speaks, also in a whisper. “There’s a pantry with a decent amount of food, though most of it is rotten now. I assume he’s getting most of his food from the small garden with some fruit and vegetables that’s outside. It’s the only thing that’s been taken care of here.”

His shirt has no sleeves, and from what she can tell, he’s got a decent amount of muscle on him too. He’s somehow managed to keep his body in shape despite being in the middle of a battlefield and hiding in a house that was ransacked. How curious.

“He’s a sex slave,” Esme says, then after a pause, “Probably. He doesn’t look like someone who does manual labour, and if you look at his hair you can see it’s… unevenly cut. I think he cut his own hair recently. Clean-shaven, too. The fact that he has had some attempt in grooming himself means it’s probably been ingrained in him to try to look attractive.”

Another pause. There’s a sigh before she continues, “And he’s still here, which probably means he has some blind loyalty to his Master. Expects she’ll return.”

Frea knits her brow. What an absolutely depressing sight. He’s young, too, though not a child thankfully enough. Probably close to her own age. It takes a conscious effort to not openly scowl.

She does, however, whisper back after a sharp intake of breath.

“He’s holding papers.”

There’s a small bundle of papers held tightly in his arms. Evidently, the slave notices where she’s looking because he hunches himself further inwards to hide it. Esme lightly pats Frea on the back. 

“Go on, then. Speak to him.”

Ignoring her thunderous heartbeat, Frea crouches in an attempt to look less threatening and takes a step forward. The slave’s eyes immediately sweep across the room, more wild than a deer caught in the crosshairs. Obviously he’s looking for a route to escape, and Frea knows she has to calm him down before he does something that’ll actually get him shot.

She swallows thickly before wetting her lips nervously. “Hello,” she says lamely in Utritian. It’s been a while since she’s actually spoken the language, and she hopes her pronunciation is still accurate. She repeats the greeting, but this time slower.

With how his gaze then locks still, fixed upon Frea, eyes as wide as if someone was coming to deliver the fatal blow, she assumes he understands. At least that’s one hurdle taken care of.

The next hurdle is much larger. What does someone say in a situation like this? None of her training even remotely told her how to deal with a clearly terrified slave. Should she… Should she speak to him like she does to Nathaniel when he’s throwing one of his fits? The slave won’t find that patronizing, will he? Do slaves even know when they’re being patronized? Considering how Esme hasn’t made a quip about anything yet, she must be doing something right, surely. 

_ Acadia, I ask you to give me strength once more! _

“My name is Frea,” presumably saying her first name makes it more casual, and therefore… vaguely less terrifying, “We’re… uh, We’re here to help.”

Nothing. He just blinks at her owlishly. 

She turns her head slightly and slips back to Asnainian, “Should we tell him his Master is dead?”

“No. That’ll likely make him panic. Just assure him we mean him no harm and that he can trust us.” Esme shifts on her feet, looking unsure for the first time, “Perhaps you can say he’s been… liberated? Or maybe that’s going too fast…”

Frea turns back, not missing how the slave’s eyes have gone back to looking at every corner of the room. She quirks her lips upwards, knowing full-well her smile is incredibly forced. Hopefully the slave can’t tell the difference. 

She edges closer, and he noticeably becomes more tense. 

“We won’t hurt you,” she says softly, “Are you injured? We’ve got medical supplies if you need it. Food, too. We’re here to help.”

Nothing.

“You’ve nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

Nothing.

“The fighting’s over. No one will hurt you. Would you like some water?”

Nothing.

Frea runs a hand through her hair, unsure of what else she’s supposed to say. She had hoped that keeping her words as simple as possible would help with the situation. He’s filthy, and she had considered asking if he wanted a warm bath, but she doubted a sex slave would appreciate a proposition like that. 

Esme’s voice sounds closer now, “Are you sure he can understand you?”

She’s not so sure herself anymore. She edges closer and asks something to discern if he’s actually truly heard anything she’s been saying until now. Her voice is still soft, and she keeps her strained smile. At the back of her mind, she wonders if her smile is just making him more scared.

“Can I see what’s in your hands?”

There’s a hitch in the slave’s breath, and he makes a small noise of discomfort as he continues to hunch in on himself, pressing against the closet wall like he’s trying to blend in with it. 

Frea switches to Asnainian, “Yes. He can understand me.”

She continues to move closer. Perhaps if she were to show she means no harm he would settle down? She needs her movements to be precise but calming. Maybe even a bit motherly. She swallows thickly, hands moving agonizingly slowly as she creeps towards him. Maybe that’s a bit threatening, but she can’t really change that now.

“Can I see what you’re holding, please?”

She doesn’t expect him to answer. She’s not sure if she intends to just… rip what he’s holding out of his hands. Whatever the contents of the papers are, it better be good. 

The slave doesn’t answer her, he doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he does something she really should have expected and will probably spend the next few weeks berating herself over.

He bites her hand.

The pain is immediate, as the man gives her no mercy as he sinks his teeth in her defenseless hand with as much might as his jaw allows. Frea lets out a strangled scream and feels blood well into her throat from biting into her own tongue in a vain attempt to keep quiet. Esme’s reaction is immediate as she shoves the slave away and pins him to the wall of the closet by putting a gun pointed at his temple. 

And the noise no doubt alerts everyone else, because the next thing she knows there’s a small army bursting through the door with their weapons drawn.

She looks at her hand, adrenaline probably making the pain ebb into a dull sensation. Her fingers shake, and if anything, Esme pushing him away probably made the superficial wound worse. His teeth tore through her skin and blood runs freely in thick scarlet rivers. One thing was for sure, the injury was going to be very sore to clean.

When she looks at her would-be attacker, all feelings of anger at him disappear in an instant.

_ Oh. _

Esme didn’t just push him away. She pistol whipped him. On the nose.

Frea tries not to stare at his nose but she keeps finding her eyes diverting to it. It was an ordinary nose. So ordinary that she couldn’t actually recall what it looked like, but now it’s a bloody mess that was bleeding much more than her hand. The slave wheezes harshly, hiccuping as tears spill from his red-rimmed eyes. 

Frea, having momentarily lost the ability to speak, just stares. Esme calls out to the other soldiers. 

“Tie him up and take him down stairs. Get Elader to give him and Valentine medical treatment.”

Frea continues to stare as her fellow soldiers roughly hoist the slave up and drag him away. He struggles, but only for a moment as he clearly expects nothing to come from his resistance. To her surprise, he doesn’t scream or holler like she expects him to. Instead there’s just more wheezing, along with sniffling. 

When she and Esme are the only two left in the room, shame retakes its hold on her face.

_ I got bitten. _

The embarrassment hurts more than the actual bite.

_ Humiliating. Utterly, utterly humiliating!! _

In the midst of her self-deprecation, Esme crouches down to inspect her hand. Frea has to make a conscious effort to not try to hide it away out like a damn child. She feels her face grow warmer with each passing second. 

“You just need to get it cleaned and bandaged up. You’ll be fine, though we’ll have to see if he’s carrying any diseases.” Esme says.

Frea’s well aware of that fact. It’s just a bite, but in an attempt to hide her shame she changes the subject with a bit too much bite in her voice.

“You broke his nose!”

Esme lifts a single brow at her, lips pursed in a thin line. “He attacked you. And I didn’t know if he was hiding a weapon under those papers.” She starts to pick up the papers in question, now strewn across the floor. Some have specks of blood on them. Esme’s gaze goes downward, now looking somber.

“Perhaps… Considering his state of being, it would be a mercy to…”

Her voice trails off, and Frea doesn’t like the implication she thinks the woman was going for at all.

_ Men are to be protected. _

_ Acadia also promotes beauty. _

She blinks thinking about those words. The slave’s big, green eyes invades her mind. They were… indeed beautiful. 

_ He’s… a desert flower. Something that can bloom despite the blistering heat and harsh conditions. _

She feels goosebumps tingle at every inch of her skin. She—She knows now that she’s found something invaluable.

There is an explosion in her brain. The sort that she felt when she enrolled in the war college and realized her desire and will to become one of the greatest photographers in Asnain. The type that carries more possibilities than she could be conscious of. There were hundreds of ideas there in that buzz of electricity, she could feel every single one of them. It was the calling card of paths awaiting her feet. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was hers to take and so she smiled. 

She can create something here. Create something amazing with this man. She’s found what she was missing.

_ He’s my muse.  _

_ He’s such a sad, dejected looking thing found sitting in an attitude of profound distress. Asnain will love his portraits! His story! _

Frea grasps on Esme’s sleeve, and she knows there’s a hint of desperation in her voice. “No! You cannot harm him!”

Her mind is like a butterfly, if she chose any sort of distraction her thoughts would keep fluttering back to the fact that this man was the person she was born to photograph. Then she'd get that tingly feeling all over again.

Esme tilts her head with a look of confusion. Frea doesn’t think about her next words, doesn’t realize the implication of them— she’s far too excited to consider any potential hidden meanings in what she says or how her words could be interpreted. 

Her smile reaches her ears.

“I wish to keep him for myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated in the summary, this will be plot-heavy. If you're looking for something more smut-centric and kinky fuckery you'll have to look elsewhere (though there'll be plenty of dom/sub undertones). I also have no intentions of being ~deep~ or ~woke~ in this. At its core, this story is something purely self-indulgent because I get my rocks off oppressing men in fiction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compared to the original chapter, there's only some minor changes to Frea's portions. I'm gonna try to catch up to where this story was originally fairly quickly.

_“Protect these with your life until I get back.”_

That was the last thing Master had said to him before she hastily left him on his own. She was escorted out by people wearing similar uniforms to her. They were not the usual people she had over for guests. All he remembers are the papers being shoved at him, and the door slamming closed. 

He’s been alone for months now, though really, he knows he was never truly alone. He never went outside unless it was for the garden and even then he tried to stay there for as short as possible. He always stayed under Master’s bed. Never on it. He’s not allowed on the bed. Master would know if he was in it when she came back and he didn’t want to be punished. He knew better than to break rules when Master wasn’t around.

He thought the distant booming sounds were the worst. He’d just lay there, papers clutched at his chest as the sounds almost made a song in his head. Between the big _booms_ there’d be… rapid pattering noises. He doesn’t know where either of those sounds came from, but they always kept him awake. 

Those sounds _were_ the worst. And they became, somehow, even worse when they came _closer._ His body would jolt at literally hearing anything. Then, when he made the mistake of looking out the window, it shattered. The glass cut his forearms as he shielded his face, then the ground shook so violently that he lost balance. He could still see the rolling skyline even on the floor, and a pillar of fiery smoke and dust engulfed it. An instant later, there was a blinding flash and a huge fireball belched upwards. It changed from red to blue, then back to hues of deep scarlet. Following it as it dissipated were clouds of pitch blackness. The smoke twisted, writhed, changed shape and invaded the inside of the manor.

The world was ending. He was sure of it. This was a serpent made of fire coming to eat him. The hoarse howl of people just outside were its victims. The booms continued. The rapid pattering continued. The shrill and deafening shouting continued. They all coalesced into a mass of truly terrible sensations and when he ran back under the bed he thought he had gone deaf. There was only a sharp whistle in his ears then.

His adrenaline surged so fast in him he thought he was going to vomit. He could taste the saliva thickening in his mouth like rancid paste. His heart hammered in his chest and rang in his ears. 

Despite the sheer, unmitigated terror he felt in those agonizing moments, he stayed under that bed. Every inch of his body was telling him to run but his mind wouldn’t let him. Master was going to come back. He couldn’t just not be here when she returned. She’d be furious. He didn’t like her when she was angry. She was infinitely worse than the booms.

So he stayed there. Shivering, with the papers in his hands. The booming dragged on for what had to be eons. Hunger seemed like a permanent state of being now. He had only eaten the scraps from the garden, but at least water still seemed abundant from the well outside.

It subsided, eventually, only to be replaced by the rushing of footsteps after the door downstairs was kicked in. That scared him more than the fireball did. There were people inside and they weren’t speaking in a language he understood. He wished he took one of the glass shards with him. With every second he practically felt the rise of his blood pressure and sweat pooled his entire body. 

He could hear things getting thrown around. The furniture, probably. There was a lot of yelling. It went for a few minutes, but it was then silenced by a gunshot. 

The bullet almost hit him. Whoever shot the gun aimed for the ceiling for some reason, and it went through the bed. The noise made his ears ring again and he flinched before covering his mouth. He just stared at the small, circular hole that was directly in front of him. Paralyzed in fear, the scent of perturbation invaded the room, which was really just the smell of his own urine. His first thought was to move the papers further upwards so they wouldn’t get soaked, and then he nearly cried at the thought of his fluids seeping through the floorboards and giving away his position to whoever these people were. 

When the ringing in his ears stopped, there was silence. Then a shout, but only of one person. That went on for a while, and when it stopped, it was replaced with much more orderly footsteps moving around.

They never came upstairs, there was a noise outside and then there was another rush of people leaving. 

And then they were gone. Black mist swirled at the edges of his mind, drawing him into it's open arms and salty tears spilled over onto his cheeks leaving a tight, dry feeling. He didn’t dare get out from under the bed. He stayed in his own filth for the rest of the day and night after that. He only left the next morning when he heard the same booms again, but it was much further away this time. The fire serpent moved. So it must have been safe to leave the bed, he thought.

The closet became his new abode. His new safehouse. He stayed in it most of the time, occasionally leaving for food or cutting his hair and shaving. He still had a duty to groom himself. It would do no good for Master to come back and see him in a poor state. That would reflect poorly on her and he couldn’t allow that. And she _will_ come back. Of that, he was sure. 

He doesn’t know how many days passed after that. He lost count. Eventually, however, the noises stopped. He thought for sure Master was going to come back for him. Whatever was going on outside ended. So, she had no reason to be away. She’d come back, and life would go back to normal. He’d go back to being her whore, and the only things he’d have to worry about was drawing out her ire or when she brought her _friends_ over to ‘play’ with him.

But life was nothing if not cruel. The second he heard the same language he couldn’t understand being uttered again he hid in the closet. 

And this time, _they were coming up the fucking stairs._

His watery eyes enlarged and the hairs on the nape of his neck bristled. A gaggle of goosebumps laminated his frigid, naked skin. 

The door handle turned. He could hear it. The creaking of it opening was slow and deliberate. There was someone in the room now.

He thinks he would have screamed if he could. The inside of his mouth lacked any moisture and a croak was all that issued from his gape. Air wouldn’t enter his lungs. Starved for oxygen, his heart raced at tremendous speeds. If he were to think back on it, he thinks it was his stupid, _stupid_ breathing that gave him away. 

An invisible force crushed him at every possible direction. Each second further submerged him in fear and he thought he was going to wet himself again. In the recesses of his mind, he wondered if everything was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Finally, the closet door creaked open and—

* * *

The only thing that registered in his mind was pain. He couldn’t breath through his nose anymore. It just bled. He can only wheeze, his throat feeling like it was on fire. Now he thinks he might have gone blind, because his vision was just a blurry mess. He could only see vague shapes. 

Moments later, he realized his vision was impaired because of his tears. His eyes stung. It felt like everything stung.

Then, the same fear he felt washes over him again. He was being dragged downstairs, hands bound behind his back, by people he didn’t know. Speaking a language he didn’t know. Doing things he didn’t know. What he _did_ know was that these were enemies. _Asnainians,_ he thinks they’re called.

He knows because he’s heard Master and her colleagues rant and rave about them on several occasions. Years ago, when whatever was happening now was in its infancy she had had multiple meetings with older women in stiff suits. He’d sit in the corner like he was supposed to, and listen. At first they were little more than minor nuisances. An erratic sort that operated on nonsense. Then, they became a _threat._ Like wolves, apparently. He’s heard _wolf_ repeated on several occasions, always in a tone that dripped with frustration and disgust. 

And, when Master was alone and muttering to herself, there was almost a hint of… respect in her voice. A tone he wished she’d use with him but never did. That fact made him hate these people around him even more.

When the Asnainians sit him down on a couch, he feels crushing disappointment. 

_“Protect these with your life,”_ Master had said, and he failed miserably. Would it have been better if he just tore the papers to shreds? Master _was_ going to return— she wouldn’t have left them with him if she wasn’t. Clearly she was intending to return. And she would, because it was Master— and when she did she was going to be _so_ angry.

It didn’t matter if he was going to survive whatever the Asnainians have planned for him. He was a dead man anyway, Master would make sure of it. There was no way she wouldn’t be absolutely furious with him. He failed an order and that was unforgivable. Whatever she was going to do was going to be worse than death itself. He’s seen the way she experiments on rats. She’s going to do the same thing to him. 

The very thought makes him cry harder. He tightly shuts his eyes and heaves like a vomiting cat. He let out choked gasps as he began to hyperventilate, shoulders violently shaking. The sounds of his sobs filled the air and his lungs screamed for more oxygen. Distantly, he hears muttering from the women around him.

His entire body jerks when a hand puts itself on his shoulder. He feels nothing but an intense, visceral reaction urging him to run but instead he lays down on the couch, ignoring the searing pain that comes from pressing his battered nose against the cushions. He keeps his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see anything. He knows what they will do with him. There’s only one thing they _can_ do with him. While he’s sure being raped by these people is a mercy when compared to what Master has in store for him, he still doesn’t want to experience anything of the sort. It feels like there’s ants crawling inside of his skin, biting at his veins and sucking him dry. 

Maybe if he continues to press his face on the couch, he’ll smother himself. Sparing himself from what both the Asnainians and Master will do with him. 

He can’t do that, because Asnainians are wolves and wolves like to play with their food. They won’t let him die so easily. They’ll tear him apart slowly. Hands force him to sit properly and despite himself, he finds himself opening his eyes. No more tears spill out of him. It feels as though his whole body is dry of any liquid. 

The woman in front of him has brown hair and freckles. She says something but mid-sentence it seems she realizes that he can’t understand him. Perhaps Asnainians were really as inept as his Master made them out to be. 

The woman rubs her neck and gives him a sheepish smile. Why, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why she’s even making an attempt to be anything other than a monster. But perhaps that’s just a game these people like to play. That’s how they play with their food. 

She reaches for his face. He briefly considers biting her as well. Maybe she’ll react the same way and hit him, so if he acts out enough they’ll just beat him to death. That’s certainly a promising alternative at this point.

She stops her movements, says something again. Then, she’s joined by the woman he _did_ bite. Short curly hair. Grey eyes. She sits next to Freckles. They exchange words. Curly’s words are short and clipped. Freckles points to Curly’s hand, Curly shakes her head. She looks at him. 

She has to be mad. He bit her hand. She’s probably saying she wants to have at him first because now he’s made it personal. When she reaches forward he braces himself for the oncoming assault. 

“This is Lauretta Elader. She’s a medic. She wants to take a look at your nose.”

He can’t really do anything but blink stupidly at her. Both their smiles are forced. Part of him thinks they’re mocking him. Is this… an interrogation technique by the Asnainians? They have Master’s papers now, so surely they think he had more information. 

His hands clench behind him. They might do… whatever it is wolves do with him, but they’ll never hear a _peep_ out of him. Divulging information is the one thing he has confidence in _not_ doing. He can at least be useful to Master in that regard. 

Curly speaks again. 

“Hold still, please. She’ll make it feel better.”

Freckles’ hand cup his chin, with the other now uncomfortably close to his nose. He instinctively jerks away but now he realizes he’s utterly exhausted. His movements are half hearted at best now, and it takes no effort on Freckles’ part to keep his face in place. Her hand isn’t at his mouth so he can’t bite at her, and somehow that thought makes him feel more miserable than before. 

Freckles and Curly keep exchanging words, and intermittently Curly tells him how _good_ he’s doing. When Freckles dabs something on his nose, which stings a bit, Curly claps lightly. 

“Very good! You’re doing really well. Keep at it.”

They’re definitely mocking him now. They’re just reveling in his discomfort. Asnainians were so childish. The two women speak with themselves, at some point Curly rolls her eyes.

Curly puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. He would flinch if he had the energy. 

“Lauretta is going to pack your nostrils with a gauze. Then put a bandage on it. Do you need some pain relief in the meantime? Sorry, we probably should have done that earlier!” 

She lowers her voice to a whisper, her other hand covering her mouth like she’s trying to hide something from Freckles. 

“Lauretta is still new to doing this, so sometimes she forgets important steps. Please forgive her ineptitude.”

Now he just stares blankly at her. Why did she whisper? Why is she telling him this? Are they fighting? Infighting in the Asnainian army? It’s a wonder how they were anything other than persistent pests. How could these people be the wolves Master was so afraid of?

The longer he doesn’t answer her, the more her brows crease. 

“Does it still hurt? Do you need morphine?”

He doesn’t know what morphine is, though he thinks he’s heard Master mention it here and there to her guests. So clearly it’s something that belongs to Master. Of course they’d steal more things from her. But why do they want to give it to him? Is it one of those injections she gives her rats? He’s seen what some of them do. The rats writhe and squeal before vomiting blood and becoming limp. 

And now they’re going to do the same thing with him. 

He tries to not make a sound, but a hoarse croak escapes him. Freckles lifts an eyebrow at that. The women exchange words again, and Curly moves her hands towards his. 

“I’m going to untie you. We’ll need to inject it into a vein in your arm. You’ll feel much better afterwards, I promise.”

Are they really so stupid to untie him? Or are they that confident he won’t do anything? 

He’s not really sure if he can do anything. He just wants to sleep. Perhaps they’re dumb enough to give him too much of whatever morphine is and it’ll kill him instantly. 

He doesn’t fight them like he desperately wants to. His arm is now lamely held out in front of him, and Freckles brings a syringe to his skin. The sight of its pointy end gives him renewed energy, his instincts telling to resist despite the fact he just wants everything to end already. He tries to pull his arm back, but Freckles grips his wrist harder. 

“Please stay still,” Curly croons, “I know needles are, uh, scary. I hate needles too. But it’ll be over before you know it!”

Oh, he certainly hopes that were actually the case. But there’s no doubt they actually want to prolong this for as long as possible. He tightly shuts his eyes when the needle pierces his skin, and for a brief second, he thinks of happier times. 

Curly’s voice invades his head, her tone now jubilant. 

“Excellent! It’s all over, you did great.”

He doesn’t know why she seems to be incessant on praising him. They’re probably praising him for being so submissive, which is just another form of mockery. Maybe childish praise is a form of Asnainian slander. 

He waits for the morphine— the _poison_ _—_ to take its effect. If he could still cry, he would. His breath hitches when he begins to feel light-headed. It’s going to start. He’s going to feel all his bones break and his innards melt. He’s going to throw up blood and choke on it. And these women are going to laugh at him. 

He counts the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing happens. He doesn’t really feel his nose anymore. 

Hope dares to bloom inside of him. His nose actually seems to be better. Or perhaps his body is just beginning to die because the numbness seeps throughout his body. One or the other.

Curly rubs his bicep for a reason he can’t fathom, “Lauretta’s going to put a gauze in your nostrils now. You’ll have to breathe through your mouth for a bit, is that alright?”

The real question is why they even bother to ask him if it’s ‘alright.’ He knows his input wouldn’t matter. Perhaps it’s another way to mock him. 

Freckles does a variety of things with his nose. When she’s done, he breathes slowly and shallowly through his mouth. Everything feels better. He doesn’t know why. He also doesn’t know why Freckles knit her brows, her eyes seem damper than before. She says something, and Curly, presumably, repeats it. 

“I’m sorry about your nose, but rest assured, no one will hurt you now. But we still need to tie your wrists together, I’m sorry.”

Now he feels a familiar emotion again, panic. Tie him down and have their way with him. They only fixed his nose because they didn’t want their new toy to be broken yet. Perhaps morphine will relieve pain, only to magnify it later? So the torture is worse? 

They don’t bind his hands behind his back this time. They’re in front of him, but it doesn’t lessen his desire to just fucking die. 

Curly does nothing but rub his arm slowly as he quivers in fear. No one does anything to do him and he just sits on the couch. He thinks he hates that the most. The waiting. The anticipation of them pouncing on him.

“No one will hurt you anymore,” the woman he bit says again. 

He thinks he hates her the most. 

* * *

“You’re in over your head.” Is the first thing Esme tells Frea when she begins looking over the documents she got from the slave. 

“And why, pray tell, do you say that?” 

“He’s obviously traumatized. It’s a delicate situation, kid,” Esme says in a tone that sounds like she’s trying to placate a rowdy teen and Frea thinks she might break the pen in her hand.

_Kid._ Of course she’d underestimate her because of her age.

Frea skims through the documents. It’s mostly illustrations of what appears to be bomb designs, then notes of how they work. They look surprisingly… advanced. Utreau had always been behind Asnain when it came to technology, but these seem like they could pack quite a punch. Did these designs ever see the light of day? Perhaps their trump card that they failed to utilize in time?

She keeps her eyes on the pages as she speaks, “I can’t imagine we have many options. By Acadia’s will, I intend to keep him under my protection until whatever brainwashing this Minerva woman placed on him is stamped out. When he feels better he can work for my family and become a functional member of society.”

“Ah, I see. Kill his Master and become his new one, is that it? He’s a human being, Valentine. It’s not that simple. ”

Frea feels her brow twitch, and she lifts her head up with the speed of someone who was just hit by an uppercut punch. 

“Sir,” she says, placing her pen on the table and holding Esme’s gaze with her own, “I won’t be the man’s owner. He’ll be a servant. There’s a key difference. He’ll be paid, given days off, given whatever services he needs to heal, given all the rights granted to him by Asnainian law. If he wishes to leave he can. I won’t force him to stay with me. This is the greatest mercy we can afford.” Granted, she doubts the man would leave in the first place anyway.

Esme huffs, but there’s a softness and a gentle type of concern in her eyes that reminds Frea of her late grandfather. She wasn’t expecting that, and she’s taken aback, and she’s unsure if she read the expression correctly.

“Apologies. I don’t mean to act heartless. I just believe you’ve got a simple solution to a complicated problem, is all. He’ll be in all of our care for the time being.” She nods at Frea, “As for him working for you, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

The older woman leaves, and Frea ruminates over what they just discussed. She finds she’s been mulling over past conversations more often than she’d like, but she can’t help it.

Perhaps she needs to take a moment to pray. Prayer always calms her down. 

And so does thinking about her brothers. They were steady rocks that keep her foundation in life strong and she’ll do anything to give them the best life she possibly can.

She furrows her brows. _Become his new Master,_ Esme had said. Bah! How hypocritical to infer such of a thing while her daughter is marrying Marcus. Under Asnainian law, once the dowry is paid he will be property of the Winthrope’s. Practically his Master. 

She wordlessly translates the text. She ought to send letters back to her family once she’s done here. She knows Nathaniel was particularly interested in knowing if she would actually kill someone because he’s always been a little… strange. Marcus would like to be taught about the culture and the native birds. She learned about it to ‘study the enemy,’ but a large portion was to relay the information to him. Not that she would ever mention that aloud. 

But speaking with Marcus will have to wait, as he’s currently being cloistered. Men, easily corruptible as they are, need to be shut away before their marriage and fed only select foods and tea to purify the body. He’ll be taught how to brew that specific blend of tea as well, since it’s tradition for the groom to perform a tea ceremony to his bride’s family. Apparently it’s got a lot of rules. Nathaniel complains about it constantly. Acadia help whoever is going to marry him.

She wonders what they’re doing now. Last she heard, Asnain was in the midst of clothes rationing, in which people― mostly men― do whatever they can to extend the life of their clothes. Repairing clothes and repurposing them as other items. Essentially, people were encouraged to stop the disposable cycle of buying, throwing away and buying again.

She translates several more sentences as the hours pass. Her thoughts intermittently go back and forth between her brothers and her work. A smile passes her face when she thinks of yet a complaint Nathaniel spoke to her about. 

_“There’s just so many rules I have to follow,”_ he whined over tea and biscuits one afternoon, _“Why would anyone care about how I hold a fork or walk? All I really should have to do is follow the three Patrianismo values. Those are rules I can at least follow.”_

Patrianismo are three core values taught to men: Fatherhood, service to the family and chastity. As a father, men train their daughters to enter the world and train their sons to work in the home. Over the course of a man’s life, he will gain power in the home as he becomes a grandfather or great-grandfather. Then as they get older they need to maintain their service to provide for the family. And naturally, men are expected to stay loyal to their wives.

Simple enough rules, indeed. Except for chastity, apparently, considering Marcus’ damnable affair with that stablegirl. 

_“You know,”_ she said when he finished, _“Utreau once allowed men to go to university and dress immodestly. But then the umpteenth violent uprising happened and the government was replaced with one that said men can’t go outside the home after a certain time and that they had to adhere to strict dress codes.”_

It was when she was planning to enlist in the army. She was learning a great deal about Utreau in preparation and she knows she only said that to essentially say _‘at least life here isn’t as bad as Utreau. Be quiet.’_ She’s not proud of saying that now. Nathaniel had looked so betrayed.

Acadia says to be kind and lenient with one’s men for the most part. She wasn’t very kind then. She should apologize to him when she gets back.

_On the notion of being kind with men…_

She feels as though she’s done enough translating. She can read both languages but somehow a lot of what was written just went over her head. She’s never been good with chemistry, or whatever is written here. 

She checks her watch. It’s dusk. She figures it’s high time she does a check up on the slave. 

_I really should get his name._

She rubs her forehead. _I just have an ever growing laundry list of things that must be done._

When he had his nose patched up, his backbone seemed to have all the willpower of a dead snake, he sagged, he drooped, he slouched. Hopefully he’s feeling more… chipper. If anything, having some food should help him. She had thought his battered face would be a perfect photo, but considering it was _them_ who wounded him… she decides against it. She’ll wait for him to heal, so in the meantime she wants to learn about him.

When she walks to her destination she thinks that she should at least start having him in the same room as her when she’s translating. 

* * *

He wishes they would stop looking at him. He doesn’t even know what they’re doing half the time. Walking around by the looks of it, and… generally not being very productive. 

Every time someone passes him, they spare him a glance and every time, it makes his skin crawl. Why won’t they just _do_ what they want to do with him already. He’s not sure how much waiting he can feasibly do before losing his mind. Perhaps he’s already lost his mind. 

He’s not on the couch anymore, no, other women are sitting there playing some sort of board game he doesn’t understand. Asnainians truly lacked any discipline whatsoever. Disgraceful.

He keeps his knees close to his chest and presses further into the corner he’s sitting at when he sees Curly start to approach him. Oh no. _Anyone_ but her, please!

Of course, she takes no heed at his immediate discomfort because she’s an utter sadist. 

“Hello,” she says, voice airy and smile not quite as fake as the last one she did and she sits cross-legged in front of him, “Are you feeling better?”

This is the strangest interrogation ever. He gives her no indication he actually heard her and tries to bury his face in his knees. 

“Come now, I know you can understand me. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to, but can you at least nod for yes and shake your head for no. Can you do that?”

Nothing. Or, at least he tries to give her nothing, but he lets out a small gasp when he smells… something in the air. The gauze had been removed from his nostrils some time ago, and now a scent invades his newly cleaned nose. It smells _divine._ Something that reminds him of the food Master would serve to her guests during parties.

His reaction is instantly noticed, which serves to make him skin crawl further. 

“Ah, you smell that too? We’ve got a hefty amount of supplies, and we thought we could do with a big pot roast. It’ll taste good. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And of course, his traitorous stomach would choose that very moment to let out a growl that was no doubt heard by fucking _everyone_ in the room if there glances and giggles at him is anything to go by. Embarrassment and shame makes him try to bury his face further. 

Every inch of his body felt uncomfortable. It was awful. Asnainian torture was awful. 

“What’s your name?” Curly says, “Can you at least tell me that?”

_Slave._ It might as well have been his name. It was the only thing Master referred to him as. In the very corner of his mind, the name given to him to the man he knew as father echoes like a shout in a cave. 

He puts back into its corner. It’s not his name. Not anymore. 

At his lack of response there’s a light sigh. 

“My name is Frea. Frey-ah. I told you that already, but I just want to make sure you know it. Names are important. They’re the greatest connection to someone’s own identity and individuality. That’s why I want to know yours.”

He doesn’t know what she’s talking about. They were just names, something that could easily be taken away from you and trampled into the ground. Some people had the same names. So much for ‘individuality.’ 

She stands. She leaves. For the second time that day hope bloomed in his chest. She’s probably bored with his lack of response. He can be alone and wallow in his own self-hatred in peace. His hands are in front of him now and he’s yet to use that to his advantage because he doesn't know what to do with it. Perhaps not he can formulate a plan—

His happiness is short lived because soon Curly makes her return. She’s holding two mugs. He doesn’t even bother hiding his face again and just stares blankly at her. Curly sits in front of him again, and holds a mug in front of him. 

“Hot chocolate. I think you’ll like it.”

His eyes flick to the mug. Definitely looks like hot chocolate, but that’s a luxury he was never allowed. Master liked hot chocolate. 

He grimaces at the thought that these people pilfered Master’s stash. 

Curly tries bringing the mug closer to him, probably expecting him to graciously accept it with his hands. What does she want? For him to grovel and say his thanks? He _really_ hates this woman. 

“Really, it tastes good. It’s very sweet, especially with the marshmallows.”

He examines her words carefully, searching for any hidden meaning or implication. He doesn’t think there is any, but that wouldn’t surprise him. It’s been long established that Asnainians are a strange sort. Constantly saying pointless things.

Curly seems intent on confusing him further, because she keeps talking. Her lips tilt upwards in a smile that could only be described as self-deprecating. 

“You know, I used to read the thesaurus quite a lot because I thought I had to use big words all the time, but now I find it’s quite hard to find the right words in this situation. Ironic isn’t it? Hehe.”

What the hell is she blabbering about? Is this part of the game they’re playing with him? Trying to make themselves non-threatening so he loses his guard? Everything about these people makes no sense. 

He entertains the thought of pushing the mug out of her hand, making it shatter on the ground. That would make them mad, probably. Mad enough for them to hurry up and do what they fucking want with him already. 

He can’t do that, however, because Curly takes the mug away from him. She heaves a long, suffering sigh through the nose. 

“I’ll come back with the pot roast later.” She mumbles, and then leaves. 

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a victory this time. 

* * *

_Are my words too complicated for him?_ Frea wonders as she stares a hole through her serving of pot roast. She keeps flicking her eyes back to the slave— she really doesn’t want to just refer to him as a slave. She hopes he’ll let her know his name soon— he’s still mulling around in the corner of the room. His bowl of food has been left untouched. She thought giving him space was the answer, but evidently not. She’s also given him a pillow and a blanket, which has also been untouched. 

She was hoping telling him the thesaurus bit would… make her seem more approachable. Friendly. Clearly that failed. Maybe she should give him another harmless secret of hers in hopes to establish some sort of relationship that isn’t based solely on captor and captive. 

_But._ Him just sitting there does look almost poetically melancholic. She fiddles with her camera, and frames the photo. She can just imagine seeing this in a newspaper and having her heartstrings pulled. 

She doesn’t take the photo. His nose continues to make her hesitate, and before she can think about it further Lauretta sits next to her. The medic makes a sound of contentment as she noisily slurps at her food. 

  
“So,” Lauretta says at length, “Heard you got two brothers.”

Frea’s taken aback from the random comment, so she lifts a single brow at her. “Yes. I do.”

“One of whom is single.”

Now she squints at Lauretta. “I can assure you that they are both out of your league.”

The woman barks out a loud huff of laughter and slaps Frea on the back with enough force that she spills some of her food. She doesn’t think Lauretta is _serious,_ but she’s not really sure how to take this strange sort of… banter? Is that it? From what Frea has been able to accidentally eavesdrop from other people’s conversation, she knew that everyone in this squadron was just so _crude_ with their words. Probably because most of them are commoners. They had a weird type of banter, not only were crass insults taken as hard warming compliments but the unthinkable topics they spoke of would seem bizarre to any outsider that weren't inside their precious circle of non-common sense.

“Harsh!” Lauretta laughs, “You sure I can’t at least meet them and show them my charmin’ personality?”

Frea huffs. “If you try to get close to them I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” 

She’s entirely serious, but clearly Lauretta doesn’t think she is because she barks out another noise. Frea tries to ignore her, taking the opportunity to finish her food. She spares another glance at the slave, and everything is still untouched. She has to physically stop herself from sighing again. 

Lauretta continues speaking, “Awh, can’t you tell me just a lil’ somethin’ about your brothers?”

Well, there’s probably no harm in answering that.

“There’s not much to say. The one who is engaged is named Marcus, and he recently finished his schooling. He went to the Acadian School for Gifted Men in Epcarres, as all noble men do. He’s really what you expect of a man,” a small smile forms on Frea’s lips, “Though he’s a bit clumsy.”

Then her smile falls. “Nathaniel, is, well… He doesn’t like new scenery. It’s quite difficult to take him out to family outings. When he was to be enrolled in Epcarres he threw a tantrum, and it was… quite the unfortunate sight.” She cringes at the memory of it, “It was enough for him to not go. He spends most of his days in solitude in his room.”

“Oh, so he’s kinda like a hermit?”

“I think my mother had given up in trying to introduce him to high society.” Frea shakes her head. “I don’t like calling him a hermit, or anything like that. He’s a good man despite his eccentricities, he’s a very talented painter.” She huffs, “Although his mouth has no filter. He’s my most ruthless critique when it comes to my photos.”

Minutes pass, and eventually Lauretta takes out a cigarette. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.”

She pouts, her freckles making her look exceptionally young. Frea wonders if she’s actually younger than her. That would take her for a loop. 

Frea keeps her face and voice neutral. She’s not really sure why she’s continuing this conversation, but she does. 

“You’re a medic. You should know those are bad for your health.”

“Oh I know, but in my defense when I enlisted I figured cigs would be the last thing that would kill me.” She doesn’t put her cigarette away, she keeps it in her hand as she fiddles with it between her fingers. Frea’s own hands continue to toy with her camera. She had bought this contraption just for this, so she hopes she’ll be putting it to good use soon.

More minutes pass. Eventually, Lauretta cranes her head at Frea and speaks again. She looks almost thoughtful, an expression Frea didn’t think she was capable of. 

“Y’know, I may have never seen any actual combat but I have treated people here and there. I once had someone who was hit with the butt of the rifle, along with the shrapnel. She was hit right about here,” she points to her throat, “She recovered, but her larynx took a mighty hit. You know what the larynx has? Vocal cords. Along with a bunch of other important shit.”

Frea blinks at her. 

Lauretta moves her cigarette between both of her hands, and she looks down. 

“She can still vocalize, but just barely. So she’s pretty much a mute now.” She looks back up, brows furrowed in thought, “When I treated the slave guy and when I took his gauze out, he made noises. But not normal noises. I don’t think any of it were proper vocalizations, rather they were just air passing through the larynx.”

They just stare at each for what feels like an eternity. Frea knows her mouth is open but she makes no effort to close it. Her mind swims with what Lauretta is implying and an uncomfortable feeling begins to fester in her stomach. 

“You…” she says, swallowing when she realizes her voice is wobbly, “You believe he is a mute?”

Lauretta nods once. “That’s what I think, anyway. Don’t know for certain but that’s my guess. Dunno if it’s somethin’ from an injury or if he was born busted, but I do think it’s a physical thing rather than a psychological thing.”

Frea runs a hand through her hair. This man just keeps getting more pitiable. 

Her hands go to her forehead as she massages it, eyes closing in thought. She still genuinely would like to communicate with him, but if he can’t speak how will she accomplish that? Literacy rates for men in this country is exceptionally low, and she doubts a slave would be able to read. So communication through writing is likely impossible. She needs to keep asking simple yes or no questions for now. 

“Thank you, Elader,” she says, “Better to know that now rather than later.” Then, after a beat, “Have you told Winthrope? She should know of this.”

“Yeah I have,” she leans in, a toothy grin overtaking her again, “She’s been avoidin’ the poor guy. Doesn’t want to scare him since she hit him. She’s such a mom.”

She doesn’t know if she’s meant to respond to that, so she doesn’t. They sit in silence again, Frea ruminating over what she’ll be doing next. How will she get his name now? 

She feels Lauretta pat her on the shoulder, “Now, no use overthinkin’ it.” 

Well, she is a medic, perhaps she knows best. Despite the fact she forgot to administer morphine. Maybe she should sleep on this issue, and her mind will be fresh with new ideas next morning. Hopefully. 

Lauretta pats her again. “Tell me somethin’ else you know about Utreau.”

Frea wrinkles her nose at that. Apparently, Lauretta was someone who enjoyed changing to subject constantly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me something else you know, like with that hog goddess thing.” She shrugs, “Just to pass the time. And take your mind off things.”

Well, she supposes there’s no harm in that. She spares one more glance at the man in the corner, and after seeing absolutely nothing has changed with him she figures it would indeed be good to take her mind off things. 

Across from her, there are two soldiers beginning to make use of the fireplace. The flame ignites after a few tries, and soon it becomes actually _cosy_ in this broken home. She really should have used this opportunity to bring the hot chocolate, but that moment has long since passed.

She stares at the fire. “I think there’s a Goddess named Salinia. Literally born from flames, and hunters pray to her for good luck. She had… what was it… over 150 daughters that were born from forest fires. Her eldest would be the heir to her throne but her sisters conspired to kill her and Salinia out of jealousy.” She leans back, remembering how Marcus had listened with rapt attention when she relayed this story to him. 

“When the would be victims got wind of this, they escaped, and Salinia divided her queendom into five different territories. I believe much of Utreau is still actually divided like that. Anyway, eventually one of her daughters wanted to rule _everything_ so she challenged her mother to a game of dice. The stakes kept getting higher, and eventually that daughter lost all her wealth, her right to rule, her sons, and her husbands.”

Perhaps the people of this country are following this legend, considering the amount of uprisings it has. Everyone wants their piece to rule.

Lauretta lets out another long _ooooh_ noise, her grin becoming wider. “Dang, that’s pretty cool, actually. Sounds like these people have some pretty nifty myths.”

Again with it being _cool._ Frea’s not sure she would call it ‘cool’ or ‘nifty’. It didn’t really matter what they were. In a century or two, this story will just become a relic of the past and replaced with the scripture of Acadia. Of that, she is sure.

Despite that, she nods. She’ll simply agree in order to end the conversation. She wants to sleep this day off.

“...Yes, I suppose some of them can be… cool.”

* * *

_“Do you want to run away?”_

A puzzling question. One that was given to him by a boy he lived with before he was sold. The words fly around his head as he lays on the ground. Most of the soldiers are asleep, it would seem, except for a select few that walk around. Asnainians are a disorganized bunch, but apparently not disorganized enough as to _not_ leave at least one person have watch. He had hoped they’d be stupid enough to all sleep so he could answer that question. He’d run away. 

_“Do you want to run away?”_ The voice repeats itself in his head. He doesn’t remember the boy’s face or name. He’s just a formless mist in his mind. He wonders if he’s still alive, if he was sold to a kind Master. Nothing ever came out of that question. Neither of them tried to escape. They stayed in their shackles. 

Curly’s voice comes in his mind now. She said something to him before presumably going to bed herself. 

_“You are not our prisoner. Do you understand? We want to be your friend. You’ve nothing to fear from us.”_

And yet, he felt like a rat in its cage. He stares at the ceiling. His neck is probably going to hurt in the morning. He refuses to use the pillow they gave him. Refused to eat, too. The food is still near him. Despite it being hours, the smell is still the same. Divine. His stomach rumbles.

_“I want to run away.”_ This voice belonged to Father. It’s small, pathetic, and fragile. Like a frayed rope just waiting to snap. 

What would his own voice sound like? Probably just as small, pathetic and fragile. 

He continues staring at the ceiling. Continues to think of the previous question. It had _want_ in it. 

His eyes sting. 

It doesn’t matter what he wants. It never mattered.

* * *

“Please, you need to eat.”

It’s been two days. Curly’s expression is now one of permanent concern. She pushes a spoon towards him. It’s soup this time, from what he can tell. She had eaten some and insisted it wasn’t poisoned. Even gave him a paper and pencil and asked him what he would like. He ignored that, too.

“Do you— Do you just not like what we’re feeding you?” 

He stares at nothing. With each passing second he can feel his strength and energy being sapped away. Everything ached, and exhaustion hung over him like a dreaded hail cloud. An achievement on his part, he thinks. His plan on dying seems to actually be working. With any luck, he’ll have withered away in the coming days. 

Curly pinches her nose. A long sigh escapes her. Perhaps he should call her Sigh instead since she seems intent on making it her definite trait. 

He stiffens when he sees another woman come closer, one who had steadfastly ignored him until now. The one that broke his nose. His jaw clenched so hard he thinks he might grind his teeth to dust. His vision greys out momentarily and he was fairly certain all the oxygen had left the air around him.

The older woman’s eyes have pity in them, but also a glint of something else. It’s something that tells him that, despite her age, she would absolutely win a fight against him if he were stupid enough to try to provoke her. He’s too weak to try to start anything, anyway. As much as he wants this horrible charade to be over and done with already, he doesn’t want to spark _her_ ire. 

She says something. Curly gapes at her for a second, scowling, and looks as though she’s about to order. The elder cuts her off. A beat of silence. Curly turns to him. Her eyes and voice are resolute.

“Eat the food. Now.”

It’s an order.

It’s something he hasn’t heard in so long, something he’s been _craving_ the entirety he’s been left alone that he instinctively brings his shaking hands to the spoon. Orders are good. They’re his one source of stability in his life.

But they’re not _Master’s_ orders. They’re orders from _Asnainians._

He leaves the spoon and food. He realizes that his breathing has become rapid and shallow and he stares at Curly and the elder. He knows his eyes are blank, but a small part of him hopes he looks defiant. 

The elder says something. Curly’s expression flickered with quick uncertainty before she nods. 

“If you don’t eat anything we’ll have no choice but to force-feed you. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”

He understands, but he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t want to give any of these people the satisfaction. Instead, his stomach answers for him. It gurgles loudly, louder than ever before. He pushes himself up and lowers his head between his knees. Don’t think about the food. Think about Master ripping the heads off these people when she returns. Then she’ll rip your head off. 

Despite that thought, he just wants Master to come back. At least with Master he’ll feel as though she has the actual right to kill him.

They leave him for a while after that. He doesn’t know for how long, but eventually Curly and the elder comes back. With two other women he doesn’t recognize, with a tube looking thing. 

  
Ah, this must be the force-feeding part. 

“We’ll give you one more chance. Please eat. No one wants to use force.” Curly says.

He could scoff at that. He’s intimately aware of the unheeded violence of Asnainians. They _love_ force. 

Curly brings a spoon to her mouth and takes a sip. “See? It’s not poisoned.”

He does nothing except for mentally steeling himself for what’s about to occur. Curly’s expression grimaces in a look of profound disappointment. Perhaps she was hoping he’d put up more of a fight. Curly reaches forward to touch his shoulder and he would yank himself away violently if had any energy. 

More hands touch him, and he weakly writhes. If his closes his eyes he can only think of people ripping at his clothes, pushing him down and giving him more scars than he already has. His skin prickles at the sensations of being defiled. There’s a buzzing in his ears now, and his insides roll like a boat on the sea.

His mouth is pried open.

Distantly, he hears apologies being uttered. It’s just a cherry on top of his humiliation, he thinks. There’s a stabbing pain in his chest as his heart beats wildly against his ribcage. 

So this is how they kill him. Drowning him in soup. He’s already accepted Asnainians are bizarre, but this has to be the least convenient way to torture and kill someone. They are such a wasteful bunch. At least he can die knowing they wasted resources on him. 

Something is forced down his throat, and then he _tastes_ it. It’s… an explosion of flavour on his palate. That surprises him most of all. But he can’t dwell on it for a very long time, as he’s forced to swallow to avoid his gag reflex and actually drowning. 

It might be delicious. He doesn’t know. Can’t think about it as the warm liquid trails down his throat and into his stomach. It goes down harshly and he half expects to swallow something barbed that pierces his organs. He wouldn’t put it pass these people to put shards of glass in this meal. 

It feels like an eternity of his throat being violated, but they stop after a while. He splutters, coughs and spits. There’s a trail of saliva going down his chin and neck and he sniffles. His hands goes to his throat and he thinks it might be on fire with how it constricts. At least his prolonged suffering will come to an end, he thinks. Whatever they have planned will come into effect and he’ll actually die this time. 

Nothing happens, just him breathing rapidly. His limbs feel boneless and his lips sting, but his stomach still feels warm. Almost… _comfortable._

Curly’s voice invades his ears, her hand on his shoulder rubbing circles on his skin. 

“There, that wasn’t so bad was it? Now you can eat on your own, right? Here, have some water.”

He makes the mistake of looking at her face. Lips turned upwards slightly. A crinkle at her eyes. Why — Why does she look so _genuine._ He hates it. He can’t stand it. She should be smashing that stupid fucking bowl over his head right now. 

He doesn’t like any of them looking at him. They’re all smiling like they did some grand accomplishment. He _especially_ doesn’t like Curly looking at him. He thinks about how she _should_ be looking at him. How Master and all her friends look at him. Like a piece of meat, eyes slowly sweeping over him from head to toe. A gaze he could practically feel like a grazing touch. He knows what it would be like, how Curly’s hands would feel following his eyes, how she and every other woman would claim his body. 

_“Mhm. You look scrumptious. Positively adorable.”_

His breath hitches and he gags over nothing. Those are Master’s words, the very same words she spoke to him the night she bought him, but it’s not her voice. It’s Curly’s.

_“I just want to eat you right up.”_

He doesn’t see anything. His vision goes white and he gags again, this time feeling the bile rushing through his throat.

He sways, then he vomits at Curly’s feet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More minor changes here and there, but they're important. I've added small tidbit involving a memory of Frea's mother and more banter with Frea and Lauretta (which, if I may brag, I quite like because I'm hilarious). So if you've read the original chapter I would recommend reading it again. And besides, it might be good to refresh your memory before I catch up with this story. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading.

He feels a hand in his hair. It’s not kind. It’s not sweet. It’s not like when father used to caress him in the rare moments they could actually relax. 

The hand is rough. It yanks at him. Then it shoves him down, forcing him to catch himself on his hands. 

_ “Clean up the fucking mess you made,”  _ someone says roughly. He dared to look up. Ah, it was Master. Black hair with streaks of grey was tied tightly in a bun. There was a scar on one of her eyebrows. Her deep blue eyes held a smile that belied her irritated expression. She was enjoying this immensely. She always did.

He looked back down like he should have done from the start. He wasn’t allowed to look her in the face unless she permitted it. Her hand in his hair shoved him further down and his cheek touched the tea he had spilled mere moments before. He was carrying a tray of tea and scones. His foot caught on the carpet and he fell. And Master then pressed his face against the liquid. 

_ “Don’t make me repeat myself,” _ she bit out,  _ “I want to see that carpet spotless by the time you’re done with it, slave.” _ _  
  
_

Her tongue was sharp, so sharp that one could nearly be sliced in two if Master believed someone to be worth her time at the very least, let alone bothered to utter a word at all. She’s usually quiet when guests are around, only answering when someone asks a question and typically it’s with an annoyed tone. 

She’s not quiet when it’s just her and him. He often had the misfortune of continuously falling victim to her harsh remarks. Always a comment here and there, about his unkempt hair or the way he dressed or walked. He always tried to look his best. It would do no good for a whore to not groom himself and be presentable for his Master. But no matter how he cleaned himself, with his face all washed and hair all nice and combed; she always managed to find something wrong. Every time she brought him down she had the same sadistic glee in her eyes. 

Her hand left his hair, soon replaced by her foot nudging his head. He got the hint. It didn’t matter that most of the tea had been absorbed into the carpet, he was expected to use his mouth. He swallowed down his humiliation and growing nausea. He had to follow her orders. A man’s place was on his knees.  _ His  _ place was on his knees.

He licked at the carpet.

* * *

He opens his eyes. That memory was from a while ago and he wondered why he dreamt about it. It was when he was in Master’s service for about two weeks. Despite his primary purpose of being her personal whore, he was also tasked with doing a bunch of menial labour related to cooking and cleaning. Master didn’t have any servants even though she could no doubt pay for them. He wondered constantly why she only had him.

He was old for a slave when he was sold. At least, that’s what father said. Father also mentioned how he was happy that most prospective buyers seemed to be uninterested in him. No one wanted a man who wasn’t vocal in bed. His lack of a voice had been a blessing. Father hoped he could stay with him forever. He hoped for the same thing, too. 

But Master liked how he couldn’t speak. So she bought him.

Perhaps he should have expected that. Anything that could go wrong, did go wrong and everything always got worse.

Hence, his current predicament. 

He vomited on Curly’s shoes. He had to remind himself of that very fact as he stared at the ceiling. Where is he? It’s dark. Is it nighttime? There’s an almost suffocating softness surrounding him. Spongy. It’s both uncomfortable and comfortable.

Ah. He’s in a bed. 

He’s not allowed in beds. 

All thoughts of his vomit leaves his mind. His only goal is to get out of the bed. He can’t be in here when Master returns so he begins to shuffle out of it. Someone says something. Probably Curly. He was stupid to think they had left him alone.

Perhaps vomiting took more strength out of him than he anticipated, because he unceremoniously just falls on the floor when he exits the bed. 

A hand places itself on his shoulder. A common occurrence, it would seem. He blearily looks at Curly, vision hazy. 

“Hey there, are you alright? You were out for some time.” She says softly, rubbing circles on his skin. At this moment, he realizes his mouth has been wiped clean, but his clothes are still… filthy. He smells. Badly. 

Curly’s not wearing the same boots as before. He continues to stare at her, waiting for her retaliation. The Asnainians may seem intent on keeping him alive for reasons he can’t fathom, but surely vomiting on a soldier’s damn boots will hold dire consequences. They’re going to kill him this offense, no doubt.

Curly does nothing, except tilt her head at his continuous staring. From the periphery of his vision, he sees Freckles come closer. 

“We had to intravenously feed you,” Curly says slowly. “Do you know what that is? We had to, uh, put you to sleep for a bit and use lots of tubes.”

She doesn’t seem to really understand what they did to him either. He has no idea what she meant by it, but he doesn’t feel anything. Just a bit groggy. He also doesn’t know what ‘intravenously’ means but it had something to do with food. He doesn’t feel hungry. Strange.

She sits up, “Hopefully your body will feel good with the nutrients. We’ve also untied you. I hope it can make you feel more comfortable.”

He blinks at that, looking down to indeed see he’s been untied. The very fact adds another layer of confusion to these people. Why would do something so stupid? Or do they really view him so non-threateningly? That possibility makes his cheek warm up in embarrassment. 

He stands, Curly says something about sitting, but that would mean sitting on the bed so he just stays still. She quirks a single brow at that.

Curly and Freckles talk. Curly turns to him, brows pinched and she wrings her hands together in movements he can only interpret as  _ nervousness.  _ Again with their unfathomable actions. Why would  _ she  _ be nervous? She’s not the one who’s likely about to die. What, is he the first person who’s life she’s going to end? Is that it? He hates her. 

And yet, a strange feeling washes over him. Maybe this is what they call acceptance. He’s just calm. He doesn’t feel like running or hiding. He’s ready for everything to end now. 

“You’re filthy.” she says at length, and he just stares blearily at her again, “We’ve prepared a bath for you. And a new set of clothes, too.”

He opens his mouth slightly in astonishment. Before he realizes it he clenches his fists. So that is how they’ll punish him. Get him prim and proper and then swap him around the soldiers as they use him as their own personal toy. Master had done that a few times. Invite a few friends, some of which had their own slaves, and then use him as the ‘main event,’ as she put it. He hated those the most, and on rare occasions he would lose consciousness from the treatment.

Again, however, he feels only calmness. He thinks he’ll put up a fight, won’t make it that easy for them. He hopes so, anyway, he doesn’t know for sure until the actual torture starts, but right now he just quietly accepts his fate. 

Perhaps it’s because he thinks he’s about to die, but he thinks back to father. If there’s an afterlife, maybe he’ll be meeting him soon. 

He silently follows them, his mind continuing to replay memories of father. He’s not sure if they were ever truly happy, but some days were at least simple. Those days passed by with little consequence, allowing him a brief reprieve in between the moments he rented his body out to prospective buyers. There’s an emptiness in his heart when he walks. A shear of nothingness that somehow takes over and holds his soul. Grief, he muses. Grief for a father that’s undoubtedly dead by now.

The feeling surges with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by his long intakes of the damp winter air. It must sound like he’s sighing a lot, if Curly’s looks are anything to go by. 

She doesn’t look annoyed. Her brows are still pinched, and she’s got a frown. Pity, probably. He wishes she would just hurry up and stop the act already, that she would just scowl at him and beat him. At least then he would understand. 

He breathes out heavily again. It’s long since been established that Asnainians make no sense. They’re wolves, and they like to prolong as much suffering as possible.

* * *

Turns out the ‘bath’ is really just a large metal barrel with water in it and a small flame underneath. He supposes that was inevitable. The actual bathroom was in a portion of the manor that was blown to smithereens, so he had taken to doing his business outside, or in the bucket the Asnainian’s provided. 

This barrel thing looks like a very insufficient set-up considering the amount of soldiers that mull around here now. Freckles isn’t with them now, and Curly shifts on her feet awkwardly. She scratches her head and avoids eye-contact. 

“I’m sorry, someone has to keep an eye on you. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Obviously she doesn’t want him running away, and she probably wants to injure him herself when the time comes. She purses her lips and shifts on her feet again, and her fact tells him she’s debating on whether to say something. One side wins out, and she looks at him with unsure eyes. 

“Take your clothes off and get into the bath,” she says both sternly and quickly, before turning around and practically running behind a dressing screen. 

That was an order, presumably one she hopes he’ll follow this time. He looks at the water. Steam rises from it, practically inviting him in. He briefly entertains the thought of just standing there and disobeying her. How would the Asnainians respond then? Would they grow impatient and just get on with the torture already? 

He looks at the dressing screen. He can see her feet. She’s turned away from him despite the fact she’s behind the screen. A beat of silence, and neither of them move. 

He looks back at the barrel. The water is still inviting and he unconsciously licks his lips. It certainly is a far cry from the cold, frigid water he’d normally use from the well. When was the last time he actually had warm water at his disposal? He’s not sure.

Well, if they’re going to kill him, he might as well take what luxuries he can. 

He disrobes.

* * *

Frea stands as still as a statue, afraid that any sort of movement might set him off. She knows a sex slave getting naked is probably going to be a… touchy subject, especially when someone they’re obviously wary of is around, but she really can’t leave him to his own devices. 

She waits. It feels like eons until she hears the telltale sound of clothes hitting the floor. Clothes she hopes that he’ll never have to wear again. She continues to wait even after she hears him enter the water. After some time, she takes a quick peek to make sure he’s fully submerged. He is, and also he’s staring at her. She immediately hides behind the dressing screen and she feels warmth blooming across her face from being caught so easily. He’s an observant one, though really, anyone who just stared that often must be. 

She breathes in heavily through her nose, and moves in front of the screen. He stares at her, and she stares back. He sits there, unmoving, and she feels herself slump her shoulders. She was at least hoping he’d look… happier being in warm water. Anything but these big, blank eyes. 

_ No matter.  _ She thinks,  _ it is time to assist him.  _

She musters a small smile as she slowly approaches him, quickly praying in her mind, “I’m going to wash your hair. I hope that’s alright.” She didn’t initially intend on doing that, but clearly he’s intent on just sitting there and doing nothing. She can’t really allow that. Rather than ordering him, she figures it would be better to do it herself. Perhaps having a friendly touch will finally show him she means no harm, and some progress can be made. 

Luckily for her, he doesn’t really respond. Better than him looking at her with abject horror, at least. 

Frea moves behind him, and she internally thanks Acadia that the water is already murky enough that she can’t see the rest of his body. At least there’s some semblance of privacy for the poor man. She picks up the shampoo bottle, one of her own that she brought with her, and talks softly. 

“Can you, er, dunk yourself? I need your hair wet, please.”

For a moment, she thinks he might not do it. When she’s about to sigh, he disappears underneath the surface— something that almost makes Frea stumble backwards in surprise— before coming back and turning his head to look at her. Almost expectantly. Frea blinks, then remembers she has the ability to speak. 

“Oh! Um, uh,” she stutters, then mentally scolds herself. His actions surprised her significantly more than she thought it would and she swallows awkwardly. “Thank you very much. I’m going to touch your hair now.”

He turns away from her, and she assumes that’s his way of giving consent. She hopes so, anyway. When she puts the shampoo on her hands and approaches his scalp, she can see her fingers trembling. She feels a soft sort of panic. She’s intimately aware of the amount of things that could go horribly wrong. One move that’s interpreted as dangerous and he could be sent into a panic and she doesn’t think she can afford that. Tersely, her eyes flicker across the room for anything that he might harm himself with. She finds nothing and she makes a mental note to thank the soldiers that assisted in cleaning this place. A muscle involuntarily twitches in her left eye as her fingers drift over the strands of his hair. 

_ It’s just hair Frea. Calm down. This is a trust exercise. _

Her mind drifts to one of the commands Acadia preaches to the faithful and faithless.

_ “Be kind to your men. They will need a firm hand, but you must conquer them with love. Only then will a man willingly submit. It is that willingness to submit that will make you a stronger woman.” _

While she’s not going to be showering him with  _ love,  _ she understands a soft hand is needed with this man. It’s a simple enough tenet to follow, and she inwardly calls upon Acadia’s name as she moves her hand around his scalp.

She starts a slow, but rhythmic, motion in his hair.

* * *

Curly’s motions are robotic at first, like she’s unsure of how to do this. He could almost huff in amusement. An Asnainian soldier who doesn’t know how to wash hair. How is that even possible? These people keep finding new ways to surprise him with their ineptitude. 

Still, he can’t help but tense when her movements quicken. He expects a painful yank that never comes. And then he’s forced to reassess his prior assumption because it becomes  _ very  _ clear very soon that Curly knows exactly what she’s doing. She gains more confidence and her hands are— are—

Gentle. Soft. Caring. Precise.  _ Soothing.  _

He swallows thickly without even realizing it. Asnainian touches aren’t— aren’t supposed to feel  _ nice.  _ This is all just a ruse, he’s sure of it. Something to lower his guard and magnify the coming pain. It’s just another facet of their cruelty. 

He bites his lip. It feels  _ incredible.  _ Why? It shouldn’t, but it does. A hand through his hair shouldn’t feel this way. He hates it, but he also loves it. The emotions swirl inside of him and he has to make a conscious effort to not make his lip bleed. 

The heat from her fingers creeps into his consciousness and he desperately tells himself that he doesn’t want it. It’s an invasion, an unwanted intimacy.  _ Stop touching me, _ he should be thinking.  _ Stop touching me, I hate you! I hate you—!! _

And yet he doesn’t move away. He does the opposite.

He leans into her hands without even realizing it. Sags against the barrel. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and closes his eyes. Curly stops for a moment, but then resumes with slower movements. It somehow feels better and he lets out another breath. 

This is all just lead-up to something terrible, he knows that. 

Despite that, he thinks back to what he initially thought before getting into the barrel. 

He’ll take what luxuries he can, and these feelings… the motions… the soothing fingers. They are absolutely a luxury he wants to indulge in for a little while. 

* * *

When all was said and done, Frea had given him an Asnainian army uniform to dress himself with. It’s been stitched and altered to fit a man’s body and once again, he just stared blankly at her. She hid away behind the dressing screen as she waited. 

It’s a bit crude, she realizes, dressing a slave in army clothing, but it’s really the only thing they have available. Luckily some of the soldiers were seamstresses, despite that Frea considered sewing and knitting to be a man’s job. Though they  _ were  _ commoners. They worked differently from High Nobles like herself, so she didn’t think very hard about it. She respects all the women around her, obviously. They’ve all enlisted for the sake of Asnain’s everlasting glory, but in the words of the law, they were all technically beneath her. She wouldn’t engage with them normally, mostly because her mother would refuse to let her involve herself with commoners in the first place.

She rolls her shoulders. There’s no real point in asserting the inherent differences between her and her peers. Though it’s certainly better to think about that rather than the litany of scars she caught glimpses of on the slave’s body. It’s inevitable, she supposes, that someone in his line of ‘work’ would have been abused but the amount of scars on him bordered on the obscene. 

And of course, there was  _ that  _ series of scars she saw briefly on his bicep. It made her stop her movements in his hair when she caught a glimpse of it. The lines were too precise, too deliberate. From what she could tell it said  _ Min  _ in Utritian letters before the rest disappeared into the water.

The woman who lived here was named Minerva. 

Frea wanted nothing more than to turn his head and to tell him that that repellent maggot of a woman was dead. She’s gone and she can’t hurt him. Buried in a mass grave where she belonged. She wanted to rip his collar off, too. It constantly seemed to sneer at her every time she looked at it.

She couldn’t tell him that, not when he leaned into her touch like that. She couldn’t possibly predict how he would react, and she didn’t want to ruin his moment of comfort. So she bit her tongue and said nothing. 

Her gun rests on her hip. She enlisted too late to properly join the war, and now her one regret is not being able to kill Minerva herself.

Frea inhales heavily to recompose herself. She can’t very well let the slave see her with a deep scowl on her face. She takes a peek around the screen to see he’s fully dressed, and  _ whew  _ does he look stiff in it. He stares at his green sleeve like it personally offends him to wear it— which, in all honesty, it probably does so she won’t make a comment about how he looks good in it. 

She smiles and nods at him. “Now, you don’t have to sit in that corner all day. You can come with me to my… er, my office as I do my work. I figure it’ll be better for you to be in the same room as someone you can understand.”

The slave predictably doesn’t properly respond to her. A slave, she reminds herself, who needs to get an actual name. She’ll focus on that later, but right now she needs to get through her daily quota of work.

* * *

_ “T-To be in the service of a woman is a privilege.”  _ Father had shakily said.  _ “I’m— I’m sure the woman who bought you will treat you nicely, t-the way you deserve.” _

He’s lying, obviously. Father had always been easy to read. His fingers trembled, and his nails were bitten down to their ends. He nibbled at their frayed edges like a famished mouse. His sunken eyes held no happiness, only exhaustion. 

He patted at his son’s shoulders for the umpteenth time, swiping away invisible dust. He had been dressed in his best for when he moved into his new Master’s house. 

There were no tears. They both knew this was inevitable despite the fact they had hopes his muteness would prevent him from being bought. They hugged. He walked to the carriage. He turned back once to see father had gone back inside the brothel— the only home he had known.

When he sat in the carriage, his lips began to quiver. He could hear his own shaky, stuttering breaths, not quite sobs but perilously close. It was like that for the entire ride.

* * *

He’s awake, but he keeps his eyes closed. Curly had said something about him not needing to sit in his corner, but when he was with her in her ‘office’— which was really Master’s office, the nerve— he still sat in a corner, perhaps out of a way to rebel. He had sat there the entire time expecting her to eventually hit him. Or for someone else to come in and hit him. The only noteworthy thing that occured was Freckles coming to rebandaged his nose because his old one had become soggy from the bath. 

They sat mostly in silence. Sometimes Curly would ask if he wanted something. At some point, she gave him hot chocolate and a sandwich, which he  _ very  _ reluctantly indulged in. Luxuries and all that… And Master doesn’t  _ really  _ need to know anyway… He had reached the hot chocolate at a slug’s pace, and when he took it in his hands his skin prickled from the palpable tension. 

It was tolerable. It was in that moment he realized he didn’t really like sweet things. Maybe it was something women just liked more.

His eventual demise never happened. Instead Curly gave him a blanket and a pillow which he steadfastly ignored. He opted to use his arms as a pillow, and the clothes on his back was adequate enough. There were  _ some  _ luxuries he couldn’t quite bring himself to indulge in.

And now, he lays there. Awake from the dream he had about father, but he keeps his eyes closed.

Because he knows someone is standing above him.

Curly, if he had to guess, but the steps are… heavier. There’s more authority to it, somehow. The Elder, he guesses next. She just seems to stand there for a moment, and then there’s movement.

Next, he feels a sudden softness envelope him. The same sponginess he felt when he woke up earlier. 

Ah, the blanket. 

The Elder put the blanket on him.

And with that, she leaves. 

He decides to keep the soft fabric on him for reasons he doesn’t know. All he  _ does _ know is that these people keep finding new ways to confuse him.

* * *

Frea might, with immense reluctance, agree with Esme’s assertion that she was indeed in over her head.  _ Might.  _ She’s not quite willing to go that far yet, but the slave is proving to be much more difficult than she initially anticipated. Truthfully, a part of her selfishly expected—  _ hoped _ — that he would throw himself at her feet in thanks for her gracious liberation, that they’d link hands and skip into the sunset as they published photos beloved by all of Asnain. Reality was seldom ever to be so simple or romantic. 

If her mother could see her now, what would she say?

The mere thought makes a shiver run down her spine, and Frea shakes herself.

At least he’s eating and not immediately vomiting up the contents. Sometimes, anyway. He doesn’t always eat what’s offered to him and when he does he eats excruciatingly slowly. Better than nothing, if anything. 

She twirls her pen around her fingers and stares pointedly on the page in front of her. She’s written several letters for her brothers and mother in an attempt to stop thinking about him. He’s all she  _ can  _ think about it.

She absentmindedly doodles nonsense on the side of the page while she reads a paragraph she wrote that is unrelated to her letters.

_ Do you have any idea what it is like to live in constant fear, your life dependent entirely on another’s whims? To have no true control or freedom of your body as you are considered to be less than human? To be trapped in a vicious spiral of never being free and shackled to someone else’s will and that every ounce of free will is wrong? That if you were to turn and try to resist, someone would yank you back into line with the noose around your neck— _

She tuts at her own writing. Not only is this heavy handed, it is  _ far  _ too long winded for a bloody photo description, and a non-existent photo at that since she hasn’t bloody taken any pictures yet. Perhaps a part of her wants to be a writer. She rolls her shoulders, looking at the man in question, huddled in his corner. His nose will take far too long to heal, obviously, and she feels restless having not used her camera.

She’ll simply embellish the truth in her description. Asnainians don’t need to know that Esme pistol whipped him. 

Rummaging through her breast pocket, she takes out a photo she often takes with her. It’s one with her brothers in the yard, and in the middle is their dog, Diana. In the photo the animal is just a black mass with no discernible features, a fact that made Marcus guffaw when he first saw it. It’s a simple photograph, nothing really professional about it. Frea had taken it on a whim, and she had grown fond of it.

It gives her a renewed sense of determination.

Frea slips off her chair, kneeling down with slow movements as if she’s trying to photograph a jumpy deer she doesn’t want to startle. He flicks his eyes towards her wearily, and smiles at him. 

“Don’t worry, I’m only taking your photo,” she whispers, framing the shot, and with a small  _ click  _ the photograph is taken. 

She doesn’t miss how his shoulders tense at the noise. “Apologies,” she says sheepishly, “Once I get the film developed, I’m sure it’ll look great. May I continue taking your photo?”

Predictably, he doesn’t answer. Perhaps that’s the real reason she’s been reluctant to use her camera on him— she hasn’t gotten his explicit consent. Of course that’s it, she’s been raised with  _ morals,  _ after all. 

She pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh. Maybe she’ll have more luck trying to get his name. And luckily for her, one of the soldiers had a book of names. Her sister is expecting and she brought it to mull over potential ideas for her future niece or nephew. She had graciously allowed Frea to borrow, and she knows she’ll need to properly thank her in the future.

Most of the names are Asnainian in origin, naturally. Though Frea knows some names are shared by both Utreau and Asnain, being geological neighbours makes that fact an inevitability. There are many linguistic similarities between Asnainian and Utritian.

Before she does anything with the book, she brings both her hands to her chest in prayer.

_ Dearest Acadia, please give me your strength and wisdom. Guide me to the right path and give me the gift of knowing this man’s name.  _

She opens her eyes, only to see the slave staring at her, as usual, except it’s with an incredulous look rather than a slightly frightened one. Right. She had her hands to her chest and eyes were closed randomly. That must’ve looked a bit strange.

Frea brings a hand to her neck to sheepishly rub and she giggles awkwardly in an attempt to dispel the embarrassment. 

When she walks to him, book in hand, she can’t help but want to speak to him about Acadia’s teachings. Her faith is important to her. One of the most important things in her life, actually. It healed wounds she didn't even know she had, have comforted her like a warm blanket on a snowy day. Acadia is love, truth, blessed peace, forgiveness and joy.

She wants to share that with him. She hopes he, too, can feel that same comfort; but at the same time she doesn’t want to force it on him. 

She grins at the man before him.  _ First things first, Frea. His name. Stop getting ahead of yourself. _

* * *

Curly sits in front of him after doing... Whatever it was she doing with that piece of equipment and then closing her eyes. For a second he thought she had somehow gone to sleep, but now she opens a book in front of him.

“This is a book of names,” she says, voice more chipper than usual, “I’m going to read them out one by one. Please, if you hear yours, give me some type of signal. I can’t express to you how important names are, so I really, really want to know yours.”

He looks at her, as usual. She seems to be growing used to his lack of responses since she merely gazes down on the page. She rolls her shoulders as if she’s about to do a laborious action.

“Aaron, Abdiel, Abel, Abner, Ace, Adam…” She turns a page, eyes always flicking towards him with each name she says. He leans his head against the wall and stares at a broken mirror that’s seated at the opposite side of the room. 

“Adonis, Adrian, Agustin…” He wonders how long she will continue this. Will she read the entire book? What a waste of time.

“Aidan—” he unconsciously clenches his hands and he swallows thickly. The name rolled off her tongue like a marble rolling around the floor. It’s the same when he was in the bath, he hates it but he also loves it. The last time someone actually called him that was father because Master only ever called him derogatory words. 

Curly doesn’t notice him. Maybe he’s gotten more subtle in his movements than he realized. She continues listing off names but he doesn’t hear it, his mind only thinking of the moments of when father called him by his name. The more he thinks about it, the more special it sounded. 

_ “Aidan, stay here. I need to do some work, but I’ll be back before you know it.” _

_ “Would you like some biscuits? I managed to steal some when I was out today. Let me know if you like them, Aidan, and I’ll get more whenever I can.” _

_ “I love you, Aidan.” _

It feels like he’s remembered something he’s long forgotten. The slew of memories threaten to overwhelm him like a tidal wave. Those— Those were all before he had to sell himself along with his father. Maybe he did have a semblance of a childhood, though he doesn’t really know what a ‘normal’ childhood is like. He doesn’t have anything to compare it to. What he does know, however, is that hearing his name…  _ does  _ things to him. Makes him think he might be more than a slave, which he’s sure is a dangerous thought.

What does it feel like to not be a slave, he wonders. Unrestricted, like paper in the sky. Floating. Flying. Everything new. Nothing boring, plain or repetitive.

He clenches his jaw and again looks at the mirror, seeing himself in the broken reflection. He did not see what father saw. He did not see what Master saw. He doesn’t see what Curly sees. He doesn’t see why anyone has expressed interest in him and continues to do so. His eyes roam critically from one feature to another and catalog it in his brain. He’s nothing special.

_ You are a slave. Nothing more, nothing less.  _ That was Master’s voice. The voice in his head was either her’s, or father’s, since he doesn’t have a reference on what he would actually sound like.

Thinking about father was a mistake. Thinking about names was a mistake. He forces his mind to go blank and he just sits idly there, swallowing back his insipid tears. 

Curly keeps talking, ignorant of his tumultuous thoughts.

* * *

Curly stops speaking eventually. She’s gotten through a fair amount of the book, but it seems she’s given up for now. She yawns, and rubs her eyes. 

“I suppose we’ll try again tomorrow,” she says tiredly, and the hand on her eyes rubs her cheek and—

He blinks. Maybe he’s more tired than he thought if he’s going to start seeing things that aren’t even there. He blinks again, and sure enough, her skin… changes colour? That can’t be right. He’s never seen anyone change colour before. 

Curly looks at her hand for a moment, then her eyes go to him. A sad smile crosses her face and she takes out a napkin from one of her breast pockets, and proceeds to wipe her whole face. She wipes, and wipes, and wipes; the process of revealing whatever this is seeming to take more effort than expected. So she’s not a completely different colour— her skin happens to have two large brown splotches of… something on both sides of her face. 

“It’s a birthmark,” she says, as if that tells him anything, “Ugly, isn’t it?”

It’s certainly different. Almost looks like someone might have carelessly spilled a hot drink on her as a baby. On the left side of her face the mark is like the map of some unknown country and it spread across one half of her face, it crawled above her eye and stopped just barely beyond her brow. One her right side, she had a mark that was significantly smaller. It spread on her chin, dripping down on her neck like a soggy tea-bag. 

Before he can stop himself, and before he realizes what he’s even doing, he reaches forward. She freezes, reminding him of himself whenever Master came towards him angrily, and his fingers trace along the edges of the brown skin. It’s certainly a nice contrast to her usual paleness. 

It feels normal. He’s not sure what he was expecting. Maybe he thought some of it would flake off when he touched it. 

He quickly takes his hand away like she burned him. Stupid. That was a stupid thing to do. He touched her without her permission. Every second he’s with these people he finds another reason why he’s such a piss poor slave. Suddenly Master’s continuous ire against him makes much more sense. He had been trained on how to serve women for years and he  _ still  _ fucks it up monentually.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid— _

“Hey now,” Curly whispers, and he watches her hands touch his. That just serves to perplex him further. She should hit him, but instead it’s gentle, soothing again— it’s too weird. She’s doing something to him again but he doesn’t know what. Why does she insist on— on being such an incomprehensible force in his life? No one’s hands should feel this soft. No one should be using their fingers to caress his knuckles like this. Not for someone like  _ him.  _

Maybe this is another luxury he should take advantage of but— but he’s not even sure if they want to kill him anymore. There has to be  _ some  _ type of ulterior motive they’re hiding, one he hasn’t figured out yet. 

He looks back up to Curly’s face, she’s still smiling, but it’s not a sad one. “I’m not upset at you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You just surprised me, is all. You did nothing wrong.”

He  _ surprised  _ her which means he  _ did  _ do something wrong. Slaves shouldn’t be doing anything that can catch someone off guard. He puts his knees to his chest and buries his face into them, curling in on himself in hopes that’ll be a satisfactory response for his penance. 

She continues rubbing his hands and, after some time, she sighs. He hears footsteps, and then a chair moves, and he assumes she’s back at the desk. 

The warmth on his hand lingers. He memorizes her movements on his knuckles and in his hair. It’s something he thinks he will be thinking about for a while now.

It felt nice. Curly has soft hands. He likes that more than he should. 

* * *

Frea had spent the last hour re-applying her make-up. It takes a lot to cover up those hideous birthmarks. She huffs frustratingly when she peeks at her pocket mirror to make sure she’s gotten every spot that needs covering. Her eyes then flick to the slave who’s still huddled in his corner. 

She has to stop herself from sighing for the millionth time. She thought she made progress in gaining some trust by showing him another secret of hers, but it would appear that that isn’t the case. 

Her hand goes to her cheek, but she again stops herself. It would do her no good if she were to smudge her make-up. She frowns, and stares at herself in the mirror. Why did she have to be born with something that was so prominent? When she was younger, she heard whispers from her peers.

_ “It’s go ugly! Is she diseased?”  _ one girl in her classes would say. 

A shrill laugh followed. Apparently the comment was so funny someone slapped her knee.  _ “I hope it’s not contagious. Do you think it’s deadly?” _

_ “If I had something like that on my face, I’d want to die anyway.” _

And then they’d break off in a fit of even more shrill giggles that made Frea’s skin crawl. She clenches her jaw, thinking of the amount of times she had tried to scratch the damnable birthmark off, or how she prayed to Acadia to take it off.

Frea knows what game those girls have played. She’s played it herself, too. The game all nobles play, one that involves picking apart your competition’s weaknesses in an attempt to get on top of the social ladder. That fucking birthmark was her weakness.

_ “We are our Holy Mother’s workmanship _ _ , created to do good works, which Acadia prepared in advance for us to do.”  _ The Arch Priestess had said, as she walked in a circle in the domed temple. The building was gorgeous, old stone and stained glass. Frea found she often stared at the paintings on the ceiling, much to the annoyance of mother. _ “Blessed are those who make the world their canvas, and create to make Asnain a better place.” _

_ “Our bodies are Acadia’s canvas, she had painstakingly designed every hair on your head, every nail, every pore. Take care of yourself, as to not tear that canvas.” _

That confused Frea the first time she heard that. Surely Acadia intended for her to have the marks on her face, and as such, it’s not really that… terrible?

It didn’t stop the girls from teasing her.

And it didn’t stop her mother from covering her face.

_ “Even the greatest artists mistakenly spill their ink,”  _ she said the first time she dabbed powdery make-up on Frea’s cheeks. It sounded like blasphemy, but she didn’t question it. Mother is part of the Cult of Acadia. She works with the Arch Priestess. She knew better.  _ “The Holy Mother preaches inner and outer beauty, remember that, Frea. This is part of taking care of yourself.”  _

Inner and outer beauty. She didn’t have the outer part, clearly, and so Frea desperately tried to obtain the inner. She wants to document the beauty of others because she doesn’t have any. It frustrates her to no end.

She grits her teeth. She really,  _ really  _ hates looking at her face in the mirror, so she glances at the man in the corner again. 

He’s not making anything easy for her. Sometimes she feels like she’s taking one step forward and two steps back with him.

Before she can decide to continue with her endeavour, she knows she needs to eat. The day is nearly at its end and there’s still plenty of names to get through. She’ll get it eventually, she’s sure, but she needs some energy first. 

She tells him it’s time for food, and he silently follows her down to the living room— which has become their de-facto dining room. He slouches down in the corner when they reach it, and his movements are painstakingly slow when he eats. 

Frea decides she needs some space from him, so she seats at the opposite side of the room again.

* * *

“You know, I once had a boyfriend named Boyfriend.” Is the first thing Lauretta says when she plops down next to Frea. The medic gives her a wide smirk and takes a spoonful of her oatmeal when Frea can only splutter.

“Wha— Excuse me?” 

“I had a bird named Birdie. And a cat named Kitten. Did I ever say I was a creative person?”

Now this is inane prattle if she’s ever heard it. Frea isn’t quite sure she’s supposed to respond to this. 

Lauretta leans in, “And I’ve got a brother.”

“Is his name ‘Brother’?”

Frea isn’t sure why she’s mentioning her sibling, but considering how the woman spoke about wanting to meet  _ her  _ brothers, she has a briefly terrifying thought that Lauretta is going to actually try to set her up with her relative. 

Lauretta slaps her on the back, laughing like she just pulled a hilarious joke. “Aha! So you do have a funny bone in your body somewhere! Even if it’s a teeny tiny little thing.” Frea has no idea what she just meant by that, and she continues talking between guffaws, “His name is Alex. He married a merc a couple of years ago and lived in the Republic of Anavelle for a while.” 

The piques her interest. “The Republic? Were they living there when Utreau invaded?” It was why the war had begun in the first place, Utreau had claimed Anavelle as ‘ancestral territory’ and invaded, and Asnain retaliated due to having the same claim over the Republic, and because it was decreed Acadia’s will that Utreau be purged due to their tolerance of slavery.

Lauretta shakes her head and takes another spoonful of her meal, “Nah, they were cosying up in Asnain by then. His wife was drafted too, but she’s fine. As a merc, she’s a tough nut to crack.”

Well, she’ll take her word for that. Frea’s eyes quickly flick to Aidan, and when she finds he’s eating painfully slowly in his corner, she looks back to Lauretta. The medic gives her a conspiratorial grin and she already knows she’s going to change the subject as she is oft to do. A hidden talent of hers, probably.

“Sooooooooo,” she drags on and Frea can take a guess about what she’ll say next, “Tell me something else you know about Utreau.”

She’s not sure when she’s become this strange sort of intermediary between Lauretta and her desire to learn more about this country, but in every conversation there’s a similar pattern. Idle chatter, and then she talks about something about Utreau like she’s a textbook. Somehow, Frea finds she doesn’t mind as much as she thought she would. 

Frea rummages through her mind about what to speak about. She finds something simple. 

“I have heard countless tales of the Utrites executing innumerable amounts of their own soldiers for desertion. Each Utritian army had ‘blocking detachments,’ which are barrier troops, who would shoot ‘cowards’ and fleeing panicked troops at the rear.”

It reminds her of the train station. The sight of the Utrite being shot invades her mind and… it makes her shiver. Inwardly, she thinks she’s glad she didn’t take a photo of it.

Lauretta makes a small noise, “Eh, I figured every army did that.”

Frea blinks. She wasn’t aware of that.  _ Surely  _ Asnain didn’t do anything like that…?

They continue speaking for a while. At some point Frea relays the legend of an Utritian farmer who was the object of affection of a war general. Apparently her courting of him became too much, and the farmer prayed to escape her aggressive advances. The god who answered his pleas turned him into a tree, and he was then spared the general’s amorous approach. 

A strange story. Positively bizarre. Frea isn’t sure getting turned into a tree is much of an improvement, but the farm boy seemed to appreciate it. To this day, she doesn’t know what the moral is supposed to be. Utreau is full of strange stories like this.

After the story, they’ve finished their meal. Lauretta slaps her hands together suddenly, eyes going wide as she suddenly remembers something.

“Oh! I forgot, but we found a gramophone!” She says excitedly, “Haven’t found a record that hasn’t been completely shattered yet, but when I find something that works it’ll be a damn  _ party.”  _

Frea responds with a noncommittal hum. Lauretta smacks her on the back again and she almost chokes on her oatmeal. 

“On that note, I’m gonna go find me a record. Seeya.” 

The medic leaves, and Frea finds herself looking at the slave again. He’s still nibbling slowly, and she doesn’t think he’s even halfway done with his food. 

Before she can think a single deprecating thought, Esme takes Lauretta’s place. She wordlessly three small boxes towards her.

Jigsaw puzzles, she realizes. All 1000 pieces and each depicting a different Asnainian animal. 

“For the slave,” Esme says, “Figured he needs something to do if he’s going to sit around in a corner all day.”

Frea gawks at her, her eyes alternating between the puzzle and her commanding officer. “Where did you get these? Why do you have them?” 

Esme snorts.

“Now now, Valentine, as shocking as it may seem, I  _ do  _ have some hobbies. I brought these with me because I knew being here would be slow and I like puzzles. But, like I said, figured the kid could use it more than me.”

The older woman pats Frea on the shoulder once, and then leaves before she can further question her. Though perhaps Frea shouldn’t be interrogating her superior like. It’s just that it’s…  _ strange  _ for Esme to express that sort of interest in the man, she thinks. 

She looks down at the puzzles. One depicts a pair of grosbeaks on a branch, the other is a pure white horse in a pasture while the last one is a fawn. 

She gazes at the slave. Yes. Perhaps some jigsaw puzzles will be a good reprieve for him. Something else to build trust. She knows she’ll need anything to get him out of this shell he’s so determined to stay in.

* * *

“This is a jigsaw puzzle,” Curly says in the late evening. “Something to keep you preoccupied. I don’t want you getting bored just sitting there.”

She pours some of one box out and she connects two pieces. “Do you know what a jigsaw puzzle is?”

He actually feels a bit indignant from that comment. How stupid does she— Whatever. He can’t make a scene out of it. He’s still unsure of how to act around her after the whole face touching thing. And even if he wanted to get mad at her assumption, the Elder sits at the end of the room, and he’d rather not have another bone broken. Even if she put a blanket on him. Confusing woman.

He silently shifts around the pieces and attaches it to Curly’s pieces. 

She claps her hands together, a wide smiling suddenly gracing her features. “Great! Now, these all have 1000 pieces. It’s a lot, I know, but it’s plenty to do! Here, I’ll continue to help.”

And help she does, in that she does most of the job. He watches acutely, even marveling by how quickly she finds the pieces she needs. She doesn’t waste any time in finding the corners of the image and creates the frame. If she were on her own, she would probably make this entire puzzle in just over an hour, really. 

That never happens, because the Elder harshly clears her throat. Curly’s shoulders tense and she observes the puzzle, then slowly looks up to him.

“Um. Your turn. Go ahead.”

Asnainians played strange games, but… the puzzle does look… fun. Potentially. He cautiously reaches forward, almost afraid Curly will react negatively to him encroaching on her work. She doesn’t, and he connects a piece with a soft  _ click.  _

Curly continues to do nothing but watch him, so he rummages for another piece. He finds it after a minute, and connects it. The image, from what he can tell, is outrageously colourful so far. 

He keeps looking for different parts and putting them together. Curly intermittently assists him, but it’s only with one piece and she doesn’t become carried away like before.

He gets lost in the process, and he soon falls into a… comfortable rhythm. Sometimes, he looks up. Curly smiles at him. At some points she takes out her clicking machine - a camera, she had called it. It doesn’t look like any camera he’s seen. She always tells him to  _ act natural,  _ but he doesn’t really know what that’s supposed to man.

He continues doing the puzzle.

And beyond Frea, he sees the Elder has an almost imperceptible grin on her face.

* * *

They go at it for hours. He thinks. At some point the Elder left, and they make it to maybe… half with the puzzle. Maybe less. When he moves his neck, he hears a crack. Curly stretches languidly.

“Whew,” she drawls, “Okay. We shouldn’t focus  _ too  _ much on puzzles next time. We gotta move our legs every now and then. Must be pretty late now so we sho—”

She’s interrupted by… something filling the air. There are delighted shouts downstairs, along with clapping. When he listens further, he realizes what it is.

Music. It fills the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound no doubt rushing in and around every room in the house. The clapping continues, but it falls into a tempo and it’s now accompanied by some whistling.

“Ah,” Curly eventually says, “They must have gotten a record for the gramophone.” He doesn’t know what that is, but he assumes it must be a good thing, because she grins widely at him. “Shall we head down?”

* * *

So, he  _ does  _ know what a gramophone is, actually. He’s seen it countless times before. Master is fond of it. He doesn’t really know how it produces the sounds, but he always enjoyed hearing it. Oftentime he would kneel in the room, eyes closed, and listen to it. He never knows what instruments are being used, but it always sounded nice. 

He’s not quite sure if he can give the same compliment to the Asnainian’s dancing, however. One of them just swings her arms in a manner that… he can only describe as a windmill of bones. It really doesn’t fit the song at all. When she’s done, another takes her place but she doesn’t dance.

She sings. It also doesn’t go with the music, but it’s certainly a welcomed change of pace. She hits a variety of notes, he thinks, and at some point she belts out a long solo in a single breath that could probably shatter glass. She’s met with applause, and he finds he can’t help but be enamored by the people before him.

And next to him, Curly laughs. Light and airy, but at the same time subdued because she covers her mouth like she’s trying to hide it. He and her are standing at the back, not necessarily engaged in what’s happening. They’re an audience, if anything. And somehow, simply being next to her like this seems infinitely more intimate than anything the two of them have done despite being a room full of people. 

He swallows awkwardly. He’s looking at her face, and it has that stupid  _ thing  _ that it does to him again, like her fingers. It’s just a face. One he’s seen countless times before. Why is he nervous? It has to be residual anxiety from the constant thought that he was going to get fucking killed by these people.

Does he still think they’ll kill him? He’s not even sure himself anymore, not when he watches Freckles take the stage, her arm slinged around the shoulder of someone else. They have glasses of what he assumes is alcohol. Where’d the hell did they get that?

They both swing their beverages around in a synchronised motion, and begin their song. They’re soon joined by seemingly everyone else in the room. Despite it being a different language he can tell the verses involve a lot of repetition. An exceedingly simple song. It reminds him of when some of the men got together to drink liquor in the brothel. They sang, too. What was it Father called it? A shanty? Something like that. 

It’s a simple tune. Catchy, even. Catchy enough to make Curly lightly clap along to the beat. The cheers continue and the two women energetically pantomime a portion of the song, and it ends. Someone else takes the stage, and it continues like that for a while.

He thinks the record has repeated itself several times at this point. He can see the Elder rewinding it. 

Feet stomp on the floor. Everyone clapped and sang. There was spinning, gyrating hips, cackling, probably too much alcohol because someone jumped on a table at some point. No one seemed to care.

The most undisciplined army he could ever imagined, that’s for sure.

Another song erupts, the singer having a deeper voice this time around. In the corner of the room, he spots a chilled bottle of wine on the deck table and glasses in various states of being emptied.  _ Undisciplined,  _ indeed.

The energy flows through his veins and swirls in his head. Before he knows it, it makes his fingers drum and his feet tap. It transcends the everyday monotony he had been feeling slowly creep inside of him the past few days. Sitting in a corner was woefully boring.

He claps. He smiles. Maybe this is what it feels like to get drunk.

Asnainians were hopelessly confusing. Strange. Impossible to understand. Probably very stupid. 

Not wolves, he thinks. Maybe Master had been wrong in her muttering. Or maybe he misheard. They’re more like dogs. Dogs that wagged their tails and licked your face. 

They have wasted so much resources on him, surely. And for what? No one seems intent on dragging him in the center of this apparent party. No one seems to want to use him. They just give him food and fucking jigsaw puzzles for reasons he still can’t discern.

That very fact makes him still wary of these people, but when he peeks at Curly and sees her quickly turn away from him because she didn’t want to get caught staring he finds that maybe they’re not  _ that  _ bad. Not bloodthirsty. Just— weird. 

_ Names are important. _

Maybe they are. Curly seems to think so. He doesn’t have a father anymore. Or really a home. And who knows where Master is.

But he has a name.

And— And if Curly— Frea— wants to know it… it certainly can’t _hurt_ to tell her, unless everything really was a ruse and they only want his name to further mock him. The thought still petrifies him, but at the same time he finds it harder and harder to imagine Curly— _Frea_ — as so hopelessly cruel. 

Master never used his name. As such, he assumes she didn’t want him to, either.

What she doesn't know won’t hurt her.

_ Disobedience. That will get you killed. _

Maybe it will. Maybe he’ll come to regret this immensely. Maybe he should stick to sitting in his corner. That’s safe. Safe and easy.

Those thoughts don't stop him from reaching towards Frea, and he almost shyly taps her on the shoulder. 

She turns to him just as shyly, and she purses her lips seemingly in anticipation. Perhaps she can sense the… change in the air, as well. 

He doesn’t have a voice, but he can still communicate. How long has it been since he actually properly interacted with someone? Months, probably. Will Frea be able to understand him in this way? It’s worth a shot. 

He brings up his hands, articulates them in the way he’s been taught by father. His movements become more confident with each letter he signs at her.

It’s refreshing using his hands like this. Almost intoxicatingly so. He feels like he’s regained some control he lost a long time ago. 

His hands give her his name. His  _ identity.  _ The one thing he still has that was given to him from father.

_ <Aidan.> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> < > will be used to denote a character's signing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, only minor changes for this chapter when compared to the original. Still, please enjoy.

Frea can speak Utritian. She can write and read it, too. Initially, she hadn’t wanted to learn the language, it being from a country of barbarians made it less appealing to study, but she figured one day it  _ might  _ prove useful since Utreau was Asnain’s neighbour. 

Alas, she neglected to learn sign language.

She thinks it’s sign language, anyway. It can’t be anything but that, surely. The way he moved his hands were far too deliberate to be anything other than a form of communication. It was clearly something he had done before.

And she can’t bloody  _ understand  _ him! 

She just stares at him, slack-jawed, while everyone else continues their little party. Despite the company, it feels like it’s her and him. Without her meaning to, her fists clenches tightly. She’s so  _ close  _ to progress, progress she had been dying to achieve for weeks at this point, and now it feels as though it’s going to slip through her fingers like coarse sand. 

All because she didn’t think of the notion he only communicated through signing. 

_ He’s a bloody mute, Frea! How did you not even consider the possibility?! _

He can’t speak, and he’s more than likely illiterate, too. She wants to slap herself for being daft enough to just… not think of anything else. And because she’s feeling petty at this moment, she’ll make sure to give Lauretta and Esme a hard time about not thinking about it either. 

Her expression softens when she realizes she must be scaring him, if his frown and hunched shoulders is anything to go by. She touches his arm, gently, and leans in to tell him something over the noise of the party. 

“...I’m sorry, but I don’t… understand you. Please, let’s go upstairs and I’ll ask questions about what you just signed to me.” Her voice is more hasty than she intended, and by his bewildered gaze she has the horrifying thought that she somehow misunderstood the situation. But when he nods once and makes space for her to lead the way, she speeds off with the fluidity of an ape with a migraine. 

_ Progress.  _ The word is honeyed in her mind.  _ Progress for us.  _ She’s so certain her photos will automatically turn out better with this revelation. She can’t wait to admire each picture as if it were the very pinnacle of creativity and she longs to share it with the world.   
  
She won’t leave his side until she finds his name.

* * *

  
  


“What did you say? Was it… was it…” She pinches her brows. Frea isn’t sure what he could have possibly have said to her. Out of all contexts, why reach out to her when they’re in the middle of some gathering? She can still hear the music through the walls, though it’s muffled by the clapping and drunken singing. 

Her eyes fall to the book of names, then she looks back to the man before her. He awkwardly wrings his hands, clearly nervous about something. 

“You  _ were  _ trying to speak with me, correct?” She asks. Might as well get actual confirmation while she’s at it.

He nods. 

She does a small fist pump, uttering a soft ‘ _ yes!’  _ Then she looks at him again before looking back at the book. 

“I need your name.” He nods quickly at that, and her bubbling excitement runs through her veins like a raging river. Had he signed her his name? Was that what he was getting at? She practically bounces on her feet when she reaches over towards the book. 

She points at the cover, hoping he recognizes it. “Is your name inside this book?”

Another nod.

There’s nothing but impish glee inside her now, and a smile grows of its own accord. 

“Excellent. Okay. I’m— I’m going to read it out again, and this time let me know when you hear your name, alright?”

A nod. 

Oh, she thinks they might be the most fulfilled she’s felt in a long, long time. She’s on the cusp of a massive breakthrough, and inwardly she thanks Acadia for finally giving her this opportunity. Perhaps she was being tested on her patience this entire time. A test she’s surely passed with flying colours. 

She reads the name, and she doesn’t get very far until he makes a movement with his hands to get her attention. 

“Aidan.” She whispers softly, like she’s committing the name to memory. “Your name is Aidan?”

A nod. He still seems a bit nervous. His shoulders are hunched, seemingly in an attempt to look smaller and he’s still awkwardly wringing his hands together. He probably doesn’t know what to do with himself now, poor thing.

She brings a hand to her lips. Whispers his name again. Aidan. She appraises his blond hair and green eyes. 

He looks like an Aidan, she decides. Frea’s brain tingles like a hand that had been sat on for too long. A name, a name,  _ a name!  _ She finally has it! And— And a viable way to communicate!

Then, she subconsciously pinches her brows together in consternation. 

“Why didn’t you let me know it was your name the first time I read this book?” 

Clearly it was the wrong thing to ask, because next he hunches his shoulders even further and brings his hands up to presumably sign something, but he decides against it and puts his hands back down.

Frea has to stop herself from smacking her forehead. She can’t understand his signing. How the hell does she even expect him to respond, anyway? She needs to stick to simple yes or no questions.

She relaxes her expression when Aidan practically cowers in front of her. Right. Slave. He probably thinks she’s going to hit him or something with how she’s unintentionally glaring at him.

She smiles softly at Aidan before waving a hand at him. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I’m not angry. Now…” She brings her forefinger and thumb to his chin to make him look directly at her. 

Somehow… the action thrills her. It warms her core. 

_ Perhaps I drank too much. I’m being much too forward. _

Be that as it may, he really does have pretty eyes. His vulnerable expression makes them even prettier. 

She smiles wider. 

“I need you to teach me sign language.”

* * *

It feels like a weight was lifted from her shoulders, as if an overly large child had just leapt off after a satisfying piggy back ride. Frea walks taller. Her stride is lighter, more carefree.

If she had ever known failure in her life, it didn't show. Everything from the way she held herself, to the way she spoke, to that look unassailable confidence in her eyes said she could do it. And she  _ can  _ do it because over the past few days she’s been making steady progress on learning sign language. Though, admittedly, it isn’t because of Aidan. 

She had scoured the entire estate to find  _ something  _ related to signing. Surely there was a book about it somewhere. When she had practically searched the entire house, she asked Esme if it was possible to find a book down in town somewhere. She didn’t even think of the possibility that whatever town nearby was blown to smithereens at this point.

And lo and behold, Frea was able to get what she wanted. 

“Damn, your excitement is contagious,” Lauretta says as she takes her usual seat next to Frea. They’re eating some soup that Frea has barely touched, far too excited to read the book in her hands to bother with it. Aidan is in his usual corner, sipping at his spoon every now and then.

“Mhm.” She’s too absorbed in the pages to make a proper response. She tries to sear every illustration and word into her mind. 

“You know, Esme got herself the same book, too. Maybe she wants to speak to him.”

That gets her attention. Esme has mostly avoided the man, so why feel the need to speak with him now? 

“Sign language may prove useful to learn,” Frea says casually, answering her own thoughts, “There’s really no downside in knowing another language, even if it’s with your fingers and not words.”

Lauretta, much to Frea’s chagrin, noisily slurps at her soup. “Maybe  _ I  _ should start learnin’ fancy finger talk. Could open a lotta doors for me. Like widenin’ my pool of men.”

Frea wrinkles her nose and draws her head back. First her brothers, and now whatever this is. 

“Should I worry about your focus on men?”

Another noisy slurp. “What? I’m a woman. I have  _ needs.  _ I like to think I’m pretty good with men too. All my exes set up a farewell party when I left for the army.”

“So, one man? Or perhaps a pillow in the form of a man?”

The freckled woman reels back, lips puckered together in a pout. “H-Harsh! I am good with men, I swear. I’ll have you know that I have at  _ least  _ seven exes. I’m a bonafide heartbreaker.”

“There is no way you can possibly convince me that you are a man-eater.” Frea doubts there were even seven men where she was from. She likely lived in the middle of nowhere, ergo, she had a pillow for a boyfriend.

Lauretta rolls her shoulders, still pouting. After another noisy slurp— honestly, is she doing this on purpose?— she tilts her head and does what she does best, change the subject.

“Man, I’m so jealous of all the soldiers that have been posted elsewhere. At least they have the opportunity to score someone.”

At this moment, Frea takes the time to appraise the room. The majority of the soldiers that were here have indeed been stationed elsewhere, considering their presence just wasn’t needed. There’s nothing happening in this estate that needs an entire battalion, and so Frea finds herself in the company of herself, Lauretta, Esme and maybe three other women. 

And Aidan, of course. She wonders if the lack of people has made him more comfortable, because he eats faster now.

Her eyes go back to the book. The current page talks about how to make the symbols for some letters that she practices. 

“I doubt there’s many Utritian men worth… ‘scoring,’” Frea says, not bothering to look up from the book, “Did you know that their belief system dictates that they were put on this planet to recivilize it, which included getting rid of lesser races? And the lesser sex, too, I suppose. From every report I’ve read it would appear all Utritian men were slaves.”

She looks back at Lauretta with a small smirk. “So I doubt there’s much scoring to be had.”

Though, in  _ fairness,  _ this whole slavery shtick was after another rebellion that occurred about almost a century ago. Apparently before then, men were believed to be more strongly connected to the abstract things of life like art, spirituality and learning and were decidedly not just slaves. At that thought, she looks back to Aidan. Something tells her he’d probably be good at all three of those things. 

She should share those three things with him. Thinking of what she wants to share and show him, she realizes how much she wants him to experience the many festivities celebrated in Asnain. Would his eyes light up? Would he give a big, excited smile? She would love to immortalize that in a photo.

Another time, perhaps. 

In that moment, Esme appears in front of her and unceremoniously shoves another box at her, almost making Frea spill her food on her book. 

“Another puzzle, since I’m sure the kid has finished the ones I’ve given him. Since he can reply to you now, maybe you can tell me if he wants anything else. I’ll try to get anything within my power.”

And with that, she leaves. Lauretta snickers beside her.

“She’s got such a… mom energy, huh? Honestly, it’s kinda adorable.”

Sometimes, Frea doesn’t really understand the way Lauretta speaks. “Of course. She’s a mother, what do you mean?”

“She’s gonna be Aidan’s auntie, I just know it!”

“You just said she was like a mother, not an aunt!”

Lauretta guffaws as she usually goes, and Frea decides this conversation is going absolutely nowhere.

She might as well test her progress in sign language instead.

* * *

Aidan had been watching Frea the entire time. He thinks an argument occurred, but he’s not too sure. The next thing he knows is that she’s sitting in front of him with pinched brows. 

She moves her hands. More specifically, she moves her fingers.

Her movements remind him of when the men at the brothel tried to speak with him. It’s clumsy and unpracticed. He thinks she’s trying to ask him a question, but he genuinely has no clue what she’s signing. Her fingers are sideways, instead of directly pointing at him which is the  _ right  _ way to sign and so he has trouble making out which letters she’s trying to show. And it’s going the wrong way, but he just realizes for the first time that she appears to be left handed, so maybe that’s the issue? 

The only thing he thinks he’s gotten is the letter  _ m.  _ But that’s it.

And another thing, why even bother signing? He’s mute, not deaf. What’s the point?

He tilts his head. She seems to get his meaning. 

She sighs. “You didn’t understand anything I tried to say there, did you?” 

He shakes his head.

“I was trying to ask you if you could understand me, but… well.” 

Aidan wants to ask her why she would bother signing in the first place, but he doesn’t want to be rude. He seemingly no longer has the ever present threat of doom looming over him, but he still feels like he has to watch his every movement. Doesn’t want to actually offend someone. Thinking he’s constantly walking on eggshells was ingrained in him since he was a child. But they’ve yet to hit him, so surely he hasn't done anything wrong.  _ Yet.  _

He just needs to keep being good with these people. Keep what he’s been doing since it’s clearly successful.

Frea sighs again, this noise of exasperation is quickly becoming something he expects at least once a day. Somehow, he thinks he likes it. It gives him a weird sense of familiarity now.

“Can you… tell me what I did wrong?” She asks.

He immediately starts his signing but before he can get to his second word, she stops him with a docile smile. 

“S-Sorry, can you, um, go slower? I need to check my book…” Her cheeks have a tinge of pinkness to them now.

He does so, stopping at each letter and waiting for her to go to the corresponding page. He wonders if she’s going to the correct letters in the first place, since he knows that some look pretty similar. 

Frea runs a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated. “Just… wait a moment,” he stops immediately, watching her take out a pen from her breast pocket and she sets it on one of the book’s pages. 

“Continue.”

He’s  _ pretty  _ sure it wasn’t meant as an order, but her tone and inflection makes his mind buzz. 

In a good way.

Because it’s something so simple that he can  _ do.  _ He can do something to satisfy her. He can follow her demand. It’s something he’s longed to have done in such a long time now— to be of  _ use  _ to someone, no matter how small. To service someone. For someone to give him some sort of purpose.

It gives him renewed vigor and he signs excitedly. 

With how Frea studies him like a hawk, looks at each every individual page for the letter, and writes it down, it naturally takes them a while for him to say what he wanted. 

She reads what he wrote with scrunched brows. “I pointed the wrong way?”

He nods before bringing up his hand. He signs the letter  _ n  _ which is simple enough, one only needs to point their middle and index finger. First, he points it sideways like she did before shaking his head, then he points his fingers in front of him and nods.

She seems to get the idea as she nods with him. 

But she also pouts. 

“...The illustration in the book led me astray. The fingers were pointed sideways, but I suppose that was to show the readers how to form their hand. No matter. At least I think I’m starting to get a grasp on things.”

He’s not sure if he’s meant to respond, so he doesn’t.

She seems to study the book further, though her eyes are trained on a single page so he wonders if she’s truly reading it. 

Before he realizes it, she’s looking at him and speaking.

“I should return the favour of you teaching me. How about I teach you how to understand Asnainian? To read and write, too?”

He blinks. Again with asking him about… things. About his  _ opinion.  _ It bothers him more than it should and all his prior vigor disappears. It’s much simpler when someone just tells him something, rather than asking about it. At least then he can do whatever is needed of him rather than wonder what the right answer is supposed to be—

_ “Which one do you think I should read? ‘Introduction to Poison Gas,’”  _ Master had said as she pointed to a book with a deep red cover,  _ “Or should I read ‘Boron Porphyrin and Corrole Complexes.’”  _ She pointed to a book with a green cover. 

Aidan didn’t know why she had asked him. Nothing he could have said would have been useful.

But he also knows she had been drinking, so maybe that’s why she bothered to ask in the first place, though that didn’t change his growing apprehension. He didn’t know anything about these books and their topics. He had no clue what she said for the second’s title.

Though he knows what ‘introduction’ means for the first book. That means it’s simple. Easier? So surely that’s the best one to read. 

He pointed at the red one.

No sooner had he did that did he feel the back of Master’s palm make contact to his cheek. The slap was as loud as a clap and stung his face. Just below his eye was a small cut where one of Master’s many rings had caught him.

He crumpled to the ground. Above him, Master growled and her words were garbled. 

_ “You want me to read a fucking introduction? Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” _

When she kicked his legs he let out a strangled gasp, but he stayed there. She always got more mad whenever he tried to move away so he did what he did best, he took the punishment. 

He deserved it, anyway. He implied she was stupid. 

She kicked him again, blood seeping beneath his skin as purple bruises formed on his ribs.

Questions were bad. Questions always meant a beating because there was never a right answer.

—His throat feels like it’s burning and he swallows thickly. If he stays on that memory any longer, he might start breathing like he’s drowning, and he doubted anyone would appreciate that. It might anger Frea. 

And what might anger her more is not answering her question. His hands instinctively goes to his ribs, like he’s hugging himself. He almost feels a phantom pain from the last beating Master gave him, which might as well have been months ago. He doesn’t know how long it’s been but the pain still seems fresh. 

Aidan remembers when the first time he started seeing bruises on Father. Father had called them blooming flowers with a smile that was as hollow as his eyes. Aidan didn’t view them the same way.

And he’d rather not have more ‘flowers’ on him, but he knows he needs to answer Frea’s question. Her strange gaze tells him as much. If he doesn’t, he’ll get a beating. But if he does, he’ll probably still get one anyway. Perhaps answering will make her hit him less. 

At this point, he genuinely can’t recall what she even asked in the first place. His mind is too much of a mess of broken memories and harsh reminders. 

He nods mutely anyway.

Frea claps her hands together and the noise almost makes him jump out of his skin.

“Fantastic! Then I’ll try to teach you some things when I am able. Perhaps when I’m done translating today’s quota of documents. In the meantime, I want to practice more signing, alright?”

He stares at her, belatedly realizing there was sweat that pooled at the back of his neck. She moves her hands and fingers and while he watches, he has no idea what she’s saying. Not because she’s signing incorrectly— which she probably is— but because his mind is still running in circles. 

No hits come. Not even a single word of derision. 

He answered a question and his skin doesn’t tingle with pain. No new flowers bloom across his skin. 

Asnainians just keep finding new ways to surprise him.

* * *

_ Frea  _ keeps surprising him. Or at least, baffling him. 

Well, really, she was just making him curious right now. 

It’s been some time after their previous conversation, and she’s at Master’s desk scribbling away at something. Meanwhile, Aidan sits at his usual spot. He kneels there, which surprises him. He doesn’t know when he switched from sitting with his knees to his chest to kneeling. 

Neither is particularly comfortable, but the latter is infinitely more familiar to him. If he wasn’t cooking, cleaning or servicing Master he’d be kneeling on the floor in whatever room she was in, which was often her office. 

First with Frea’s small demand to him here, on his knees. He feels more and more familiar and it feels good.  _ Right.  _ It’s even better that it’s something that hasn’t involved beating so far. That very fact still confuses him, but he’ll take what small privileges he can. Was a hit to the nose really all these people had?

Aidan looks at the puzzle he’s long since finished, then he looks at Frea. She’s not scribbling anymore. He heard a single click, but her camera was quickly put away. Now she’s toying around with… something. Fabric? He can’t quite tell at this angle. From what he can see, she’s placing them on top of one another, looking at them reverently. Then she puts her hands on her chest and closes her eyes. 

It’s obviously some sort of ritual, but it didn’t seem to do anything, so he doesn’t know why she does it.

When her eyes eventually meet his, he instinctively looks away. 

He hears a noise, a chair probably moving from its place. Then steps, and then he sees bits of fabric placed in front of him. Three of them. They have images etched on them, from a penic, he surmises. One has a diamond, one has a circle in a square, and the last has a triangle.

When she speaks, he looks back up at her. 

“Are you curious about the meaning of these?”

Another question. Another hesitant nod. 

No hits come.

Instead she almost… coos at him. 

“So this,” she points at the diamond, “Means prosperity, and this,” she points at the circle in the square, “Is intelligence and finally this,” her finger goes to the final shape, “Means protection.”

Aidan resists the urge at scrunching his nose at whatever she just said. Nothing about it made any sense whatsoever. She continues. 

“Sometimes I use these to pray to Acadia. Back home I would burn incense too.” There’s a pause, and she smiles at him, “Do you know who Acadia is?”

Why would he know  _ anyone?  _ Would she get mad if he doesn’t know and it’s supposed to be obvious? So far, being truthful has worked, so he shakes his head slowly, mentally preparing himself for a slap.

It, of course, never comes. He thinks he’s almost beginning to enjoy this woman’s company. 

_ You shouldn’t. What will happen when Master comes back? _

He’ll get a beating for being disobedient and that’ll be the end of it. If she doesn’t just straight up kill him, that is. He’s done so many things wrong that probably warrants a death sentence. 

But Master isn’t  _ here  _ right now. Again, he finds himself thinking he should take what little privileges and pleasures he can.

It’s almost exciting, doing something so dangerous and disobedient. Thinking he might even get away with it. There  _ will  _ be consequences for this later. Master will make sure of it, but he’ll keep doing what’s doing and regret it later.

Frea smiles at him and he thinks he wants to touch her hands again. 

“Acadia is…” she trails off, voice almost blissful, “Well, she’s all that’s good in the world. She’s everyone’s Mother.”

Now, he does scrunch his nose.  _ Everyone’s  _ Mother? Are her, Lauretta and the Elder all related then? That doesn’t seem to make sense. That sounds impossible. 

Though then again, he knows many men in the brothel he grew up in were related. He’s had brothers and half brothers he never had any real relationship with.

Women in the brothel were few and far between. He barely saw them, and when he did, they were pregnant. Even an idiot slave like him can infer they were only there to make new slaves and prostitutes. All the female babies were taken elsewhere. He was told they were left to die somewhere because only male babies make money in the brothel. The same happened to any newborn with any defects. The only reason he lived was because he didn’t have any noticeable physical problems.

He furrows his brows. Maybe female babies weren’t killed? Maybe they became people like Frea? Does Asnain have the same thing going on there, with a select few women making babies? He hasn’t seen any men around here. So surely they must be doing what they do here, mulling around in some brothel. 

Except here, women who become pregnant are clearly… better off in Asnain? He has no idea who these women in the brothel were, but he was pretty sure they had just as poor of time as every man there. Father had called them criminals. In Asnain, apparently, they’re prayed to. He’s not really sure what praying is.

So strange. Yet another thing for Asnainians to confuse him about.

Frea seems to take note of his bewildered expression. 

“Ah, do you not know what a Goddess is? She’s…” She purses her lips, thinking about her next words for a moment, “An ethereal being. Immortal. She’s everywhere.”

He doesn’t know what ethereal means, but he nods anyway. Acadia sounds pretty scary.

Frea continues speaking about things he doesn’t understand. Things called spirits and other such things. She seems to like this Mother a lot, and he thinks he would have liked his own Mother, too, if he knew her like Father.

“Do you have any questions?” She asks.

Maybe he should ask what she means about most of the things she just said to him. But maybe that’d insult her. He hasn’t yet found a line with her and he doesn’t want to step over it. He probably still needs to be careful with her, regardless of how she… makes him feel.

He shakes his head. 

Frea nods. “Excellent. Then, I suppose I should teach you some Asnainian? Lucky for us, there are some similarities between Utritian and Asnainian. I’ll start with those and keep it simple. And then after you can teach me more signing, hmm?”

He nods.

Her smile widens.

Aidan thinks his lips tug upwards, too, but he quickly hides it.

She talks to him until the sun sets.

* * *

Aidan had never liked nightfall.

Nightfall almost always meant hearing the ominous creak of the door.

Footsteps that refused to stop their advance.

Hands that went under his clothes.

Sometimes it was multiple hands, not just Master’s. Sometimes it lasted until dawn. 

It would have been impossible to bear had he not severed his soul. He had to think of himself as a doll. A tool. A tool has a purpose and he fulfilled it. Inanimate objects don’t feel pain. It worked that way for he doesn’t know how long.

And now, he still doesn’t like nightfall. It makes him feel uneasy, but… he doesn’t really feel like a doll anymore. Instead, he feels a soft sponginess as a blanket is put on him once more.

This has become a nightly occurrence now. Him pretending to sleep, and then the Elder putting a blanket on him. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he doesn’t take the soft fabric off of him when the Elder leaves either. 

He doesn’t know her name. She hasn’t interacted with him ever since she broke his nose. Why would someone like that keep putting a blanket on him? Is she trying to make a statement? What sort of statement could that possibly be? Is this really the weirdest fear tactic he has ever experienced?

The Elder never stays for very long. She simply puts the cover on him and leaves. 

Aidan definitely prefers this over what Master did.

* * *

It becomes a routine. They eat. Frea works. They eat again. Frea works some more and sometimes she takes pictures. Then she tries signing and he corrects her before she teaches him Asnainian phrases. They sleep, with the Elder coming in to put a blanket on him and he secretly likes it. What would happen if he actually put the cover on himself before she came in? He doesn’t do that, because he doesn’t want to potentially anger her. He’ll keep the status quo.

During the day, he finds himself sitting around for extended periods of time while waiting for Frea to finish doing what she’s doing. 

He only kneels now, and it takes him a good while to realize that he’s been… gradually inching closer and closer to Frea. A completely baffling, unintentional impulse, he tells himself. Every time he sits down, he inches closer to the desk. He needs to stop doing that. He has to think of something else. 

Like how he wants to move. Stretch. Do anything else other than these puzzles he’s been doing over the past few days but these things were something these people gave him. He can’t squander that. He can’t squander a lot of things. 

He realizes there are a lot of invisible lines he worries about crossing. 

It’s also filthy. Been so for a while now. He had wondered if the Asnainians would have… done literally anything about this in the time they’ve been here, but it seems they won’t. But they are women, and cleaning was a man’s job. 

And he was a man. 

His hands become restless in his lap and he eventually picks at his collar. It suddenly becomes tight. The more he thinks about it, the more dust and dirt he sees in the room. That’s bad. Master might— might get rid of him when he gets back, but perhaps he can mitigate the damage she’ll do to him if he just… cleans a little.

Yes. That’s it. He wants to make sure Master is comfortable when she comes back. It’s a way for him to be useful and serve.

But he doesn’t move. He’s too nervous to disrupt Frea. After several minutes, he flicks his eyes to her. Her eyes droop, and she yawns. She’s been at this for what feels like hours. They’ve eaten twice today, so by the routine she should be finishing up soon enough.

After more minutes she rubs her eyes. 

Then, she leans back on the seat and closes her eyes. She doesn’t open them, and her breathing becomes more deep.

_ Perfect. _

A nap. If he’s quiet and quick about it, he won’t disrupt her.

He stands slowly. Almost impossibly slowly, like he’s worried his own bones will creak and wake her. Now standing, he looks at her. Her eyes are still closed. He tries not to think of the possibility of her trying to lure him into some type of trap. Lull him into a false sense of security and catch him doing something he’s not supposed to. Master was quite fond of that. 

After what feels like an eon; Frea keeps her eyes closed and doesn’t give him any indication she’ll be doing anything.

He exhales a breath he doesn’t know he was holding.

Looking at the room, there’s probably not a whole lot he can do without his usual equipment. He brushes some dust off shelves with his hands, and puts the books strewn across the floor back to where they belong. Slowly and quietly, of course. He’d wipe the windows with his sleeve if they weren’t all broken. He avoids looking outside. Nothing good ever comes from looking outside.

He needs a broom. He needs to wipe all this dust and glass somewhere, but he doesn’t have one so he just stares at the floor like an idiot.

When he looks back at Frea, she’s still dozing off. 

Her lips look as soft as her hands. 

He quickly turns away, shame quickly filling him. His face warms and he feels as though he needs to be punished for daring to have such a thought. 

He might not get punished, since Asnainians seem to think breaking his nose is enough, but he feels as though he still has a penance to serve for looking at her like that. Which involves getting out the room and… doing something else.

She hasn’t told him he’s supposed to only stay in this room with her. So he slowly tip-toes his way through the door and begins descending the stairs.

_ The last time you tried to find a loophole with orders like this _ , _ Master broke your ribs. _

She did. He did something bad and he was punished for it, but he thinks he’s doing something good by cleaning and going where he’s going. He’s still serving and doing his purpose.

He’s going to the kitchen. Truly, he’s nervous. Terrified, even. This is probably the closest he’s coming to crossing an undefined line. At least, he thinks, if a beating happens he’ll finally have an idea on what he’s not allowed to do. In the meantime, he tries his luck. 

Briefly, he thinks about how much he misses the kitchen. He used to spend a lot of time there, cooking for Master. And now… it’s destroyed and messy. It makes his chest feel tight with a feeling he can’t quite define.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs to the living room— where they usually eat— he feels someone’s gaze on him.

_ The Elder.  _

His back becomes ramrod straight. He doesn’t dare look at anyone or anything except for the entrance of the kitchen. His mind screams at him to go back and kneel like he’s supposed to, but he continues walking like a puppet on its strings. He’s aware he’s drawing more attention to himself by walking so stiffly.

It doesn’t stop himself from entering the kitchen, however, and he finds Lauretta in front of a boiling pot. She’s not wearing her usual jacket, rather he’s got on a sleeveless shirt. For the first time, he realizes she’s quite lean.

Then he looks at the pot. It has a brown liquid. It smells familiar.

Hot chocolate.

_ Yes. _

He really didn’t have much of a plan for when he actually got here. Just simply get  _ something  _ and leave. Now he has that something. 

Lauretta just stares at him. He points at the pot, then he points to himself, hoping he’s able to get the point across. 

_ Demanding, aren’t you? That’s cause for a lashing. _

He thinks he feels a sting on his back. An old scar acting up. He knows the pain can’t be real, but he feels it anyway. 

The woman in front of him says something, which he obviously doesn’t understand, but he  _ thinks  _ he might hear the word ‘you’ in there somewhere. He only knows bits and pieces of Asnainian, because it’s difficult to keep anything he’s been taught in his mind, though the more he thinks about it, the more similar the two languages become.

And, if he were to be honest, he doesn’t really think Frea is a very good teacher. She reads something in Utritian, then in Asnainian, and expects him to know it.

He’ll never actually admit that to her, however. He’ll pretend to know what she’s teaching him for as long as he’s able.

Lauretta smiles at him. Sheepish. She knows he can’t understand him. He points at the pot and to himself again. 

Her cheeks dimple at that, and he notes that her eyes are the same colour as her freckles. It reminds him of acorns. She pours some of the drink in a single cup and gives it to him. 

He doubts she’ll understand his signing, so he instead nods his head at her. Her smile turns into a toothy grin and he assumes he’s succeeded in getting across his message.

It feels so bizarre having this cup in his hands. Of having  _ asked  _ for it and receiving it. 

Unnatural. Surreal. But she just grins at him.

Feeling like staying for any longer will turn the situation into a poor one, he walks out the kitchen just as stiffly as he did when he walked in. 

He ignores the looks he can feel on him. When he’s on the stairs and out of sight, he realizes there’s sweat on his brow.

This is weird. This is so fucking weird that he’s doing anything of this. It’s not just the Asnainians that confuse him, he confuses himself now.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

He finds he doesn’t really mind it very much.

* * *

When he sets the cup on the desk, he finds himself in another predicament. Hot chocolate is meant to be  _ hot.  _ What if she wakes up too late and it’s cold? Will he get in trouble for that? Maybe this was a stupid idea. It was far too impulsive—

Frea sniffs, though her eyes are still closed. She sniffs again. Her body shifts and she opens her eyes. 

He knew the drink had an aroma, but he didn’t realize it was  _ that  _ potent. Is she just good at smelling things?

She looks at the cup. Then she looks at him. Then she looks at the cup again.

The entire time, Aidan’s mind is screaming at him for not going to his usual kneeling spot before she woke up, but he’s already broken so many rules at this point so what’s one more? 

_ You’re going to die at this rate. Someone will snap because of your incompetence and you will pay for it. _

If—  _ when _ — that happens, he’ll take it. He’ll accept it and agree with the sentiment. He can’t believe he’s doing any of this nonsense either but he’s already accepted he’d never live very long in the first place.

He waits for her response with bated breath.

Frea looks at him almost tentatively, asking, “...Is this for me?”

He nods with more enthusiasm than he thinks he should. She takes the cup and brings it to her lips, sipping at the drink. The anticipation makes him even more nervous, creeping over him like an icy chill. 

If she were Master, his mind would only offer one thing in his frozen state. Dread. Like he’s a cow being herded into a cart for the slaughter house, only the cow doesn't know where it's going and he does.

He’s not quite feeling dread yet with Frea, but he thinks he might be getting close with how his hands begin to feel clammy. 

She hums.  _ Content.  _ She looks back at him and again he thinks about how her lips look as soft as her hands.

“This is lovely.” She says.

So he’s not going to die today. 

It seems like he can get away with a lot of things with these people. 

She places the cup down and as he’s about to go back to his designated spot she speaks. 

“How do you sign ‘thank you?’” 

Without even thinking about it he demonstrates it to her. With platitudes like thank you one doesn’t need to sign each individual letter. They have their own unique movement.

He brings the fingers of his dominant hand near to his lips before bringing them forward to Frea.

She blinks at him as if he just gave her some type of secret. Then, she mimics the movement. 

“Thank you,” she says after signing it. Saying it might be redundant, but the fact she’s…  _ thanking  _ him makes him feel a little dizzy. Tingly.  _ Weird. _

Aidan simply nods and goes back to kneeling where he usually sits.

No one’s ever thanked him for anything before. 

He replays the image of her signing in his mind over and over again.

Bringing hot chocolate to Frea at the same time every day becomes a part of his new routine.

* * *

It feels mechanical how she translates the notes now. She doesn’t even absorb anything she reads there. She just translates them and then the words are immediately forgotten. She’s too excited about the prospect of learning more about Aidan to properly remember anything.

Ah, he's just so  _ perfect.  _ Everything is coming along nicely. She hopes to have a chance to develop her photos, and naturally she’ll need to pay him for being her subject. Has he ever had money before? She smirks thinking about what he might do with his very first paycheck. 

When she’s not writing or translating, she’s reading how to properly sign. She’s got something of a grasp on it now, though she obviously still needs practice. One doesn’t learn a new language in a single week.

On that note, she thinks about teaching him Asnainian. She thinks it’s going smoothly. He doesn’t really give her an indication otherwise, but something tells her he’s not absorbing the knowledge as well as she would like.

No matter. He’ll learn in time. Understanding him is more important, anyway.

She eyes him. He’s collecting some small debris in a dustpan, one she had given to him after he asked for something to clean with. When she gave it to him he looked at her as if she just gifted him the most precious of emeralds while Esme gave her the stink-eye. At least he has something to do other than puzzles, she supposes. 

When he’s done with what little cleaning he’s able to do, he’ll get her hot chocolate. Sometimes tea. It’s just a thing he does now and she doesn’t question it. Why would she? He actually looks more lively with each day he retrieves her drink so it’s clearly a good thing. The only thing she’s asked him if he wants to have his own drink and he always shakes his head. 

Her eyes fall on her papers. She’s made decent progress for the day, so maybe this leaves her with some extra time. Then, while getting her mind back in order, her hand absentmindedly traces the brooch on her uniform. It’s not really something she’s paid attention to, and now she can’t help but think about it.

An old, rusted heirloom. Nothing grandiose like her family’s Amulet. Still, it looks nice when she remembers to clean it. She admires the sculpting. When she first received it, it was quite the ornate little thing. It’s in the shape of a head of an Asnainian Great Hound, which happens to be her family’s patron animal. 

And she also owns one, a big hulking beast of a dog. Diana. She misses her almost as much as she misses her own brothers. 

She needs to take her on a long, leisurely walk outside when she gets back—

_ Outside. _

Frea blinks. A light catches her eye and then she sees it.

The sunset. She watches with an unwavering gaze, as a fiery red disc of light slowly sinks beneath the horizon, and threads of light linger in the sky, mingling with the rolling clouds, dyeing the heavens a deep orange.

_ Outside!! _

How had such an idea never occurred to her before? Aidan needs to go outside! Surely it would make such a nice picture seeing his expression when interacting with nature. Who  _ doesn’t  _ want to see something about a sad dejected little thing like Aidan experiencing the outdoors for the first time? It’ll be so good for him!

She approaches him, and when he looks at her she feels like she wants to pat herself on the back. He looks less wary now, and mostly just curious.  _ Obviously  _ she’s doing swimmingly with him.

“Aidan, would you like to go outside?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor changes again. Some more banter with Lauretta 'cause she's a goofball and I like her.

_“He’s a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”_

_“His eyes are stunning.”_

_“Yes, they are. But come now, he’s naked! Surely there’s more to appreciate about him. You’ve got nothing to say about how fit and toned he is? I made sure he gets plenty of exercise.”_

_“How much for the evening?”_

Aidan kneeled there, besides Master’s leg and listening to their conversation. He knew what’ll happen. He’s heard this exchange countless times and it always ends the same. The woman Master spoke with gives her some coin, Master leaves, and he’s left alone with someone he doesn’t know for the night.

They almost always make him do the same things. Crawl, mouth to their cunt, kissing their feet and then they ride him. And they always make sure to hit him in some way.

Once, there was a woman who did nothing to him. No, she just made him _food._ Fed him some meat that tasted phenomenal along with tea, and then she caressed his hair. He never got naked and she never touched his body. She said something about wanting to help men like him. Said she would try after fighting some Asnainians.

He never saw her again. Aidan sometimes wonders where she went. Maybe the Asnainians took her in like they did with him? Maybe she just forgot about him.

He looked at the woman in front of him. She looked normal. They all do. Brown hair, brown eyes. Had a lit cigarette in her hands. Definitely younger than Master.

Her voice trailed as if she struggled against a back-drop of loud thoughts. 

_“You really can’t speak, huh?”_

He shook his head. Why do they always ask him this?

_“Lie on your back,”_ she commanded before puffing some smoke in his face. Aidan hates those sticks, hates their slow creeping stench. There was something rotten in this woman’s eyes as she took each drag.

He did what he’s told, his naked skin touching the cold, unforgiving wooden floor. The only thing he had on is his collar, which is attached to the leash that this woman never took a hold of. He laid there, unsure if what he’s supposed to do next. He thought that maybe this one would have just gotten straight to the point and rode him. 

She didn’t. She stared at him with eyes he can’t read.

While keeping eye contact she took the cigarette from her mouth. 

Then she put the burning end on his thigh. She twisted and turned it, forcing it further into his skin and Aidan opened his mouth in a soundless whimper. She pressed, and pressed, and pressed before she finally let go of the cigarette. 

A baleful cackle is suppressed from behind chipped teeth that bend in like broken piano keys.

_“Damn, you took that pretty well. Good for you.”_

He did everything in power to keep from moving around too much. He wanted to convulse, to writhed out of the way of his woman, but he stayed still like a doll. He has — He has to sever himself from this. Stop thinking about it. Make his mind blank and before he knows it the entire thing is over and the only thing he feels is the ache in the morning. 

She reached for something in her pocket. It’s another cigarette. A whole packet of them. 

She smirked. _“I kinda wanna see how many of these you can take. Maybe all of them? Let’s find out, eh?”_

The cigarette was lit. She smoked it, and he laid there waiting for her to do what she wanted. Now he had to wait for it. Now he has to shudder every time she so much as makes a single move because he thought he had to steel himself about getting burnt again.

_Sever yourself from it._

Stop thinking. Stop doing anything. Just take it.

_You are a doll. You have to endure anything._

The smell was fucking awful, it was as if someone had put a piece of coal into his lungs. He made his eyes water every time she blew the smoke towards him. The rancid smell permeated the room, wisps of silver grey smoke curled and danced. 

When she put that cigarette to his other thigh, he sputtered. 

Then it became a pattern. She put it out, took a new one out, smoked, and burned his skin.

It took him some time, but he eventually was able to just… not react. 

She got bored, so she put out a cigarette on his tongue.

Aidan doesn’t really remember much of what happened after that, except for the fact that at some point, he began clawing at the floorboards to escape.

* * *

He awakes with a full body shiver. The blanket suddenly feels far too hot and he throws it off him. 

He’s alone in the room but it doesn’t stop him from trying to reign himself in because he must look so fucking stupid right now. He wants to slap himself. Tell himself to stop it. No one wants to wake up to some idiot slave acting like this.

When he closes his eyes, he just sees her again. Remembers how her stubby fingers curled in his hair and she bashed his head backward onto the floor demanding he keep his eyes open. 

He opens his eyes like he’s still following her orders, and a wet hiccup escapes his sore throat. How long had it been since he was sold for the night to that woman? Years? And yet, he can feel the burns again. His thighs are littered with them. Out of all the scars he has, he thinks he hates those the most.

He then sucked in a breath and felt that harsh burning sensation curls throughout his lungs and throat, ripping its way to his head. 

Smoke.

He can smell smoke.

The odour took him back to his insides burning, ripped, bleeding.

His body shakes uncontrollably, and despite having ripped the blanket off him he crawls back under it. He curls into a ball and stays there.

* * *

“Would you put that out? It smells disgusting.” Frea asks, her fingers pinching her nose in an attempt to avoid inhaling any more smoke. Honestly, how inconsiderate can a medic get? Smoking first thing in the morning? She’s stinking up the entire estate. 

Like a canon, Lauretta’s chest pushes out smoke in rapid, deliberate bursts. Hazy o-rings float upward, distorting and twisting along their wayward path. Every puff is accompanied by the sound of delicate trichomes incinerating and crackling, releasing a familiar musky aroma. The medic is in a state of utter relaxation, as she watches as the smoke rhythmically dissipates, one ring after another, and settles to form a layer of dancing fog near the ceiling.

“Party pooper,” Lauretta says, “Nothin’ to say about the trick I just did? Figured you of all people would appreciate my Acadia given talent, heh.”

Just the way the woman smiles lazily as she continues puffing, Frea can tell smoking takes Lauretta to a world of hedonism and blissful indulgence. 

She grits her teeth. There’s no…. Drugs involved, is there? That’s grounds for a dishonourable discharge. Plus, Frea just doesn’t like it. That has to be against Acadia’s teachings. Maybe. Probably. She’ll need to read up on it. 

She squints at Lauretta. She _really_ doesn’t like smoke, she realizes. This insipid smell woke her up, and last she checked, Aidan was still asleep. Any longer, and he’ll be woken up by it too. 

Though she is curious about what she said. “What do you mean I of all people would appreciate what you just did?”

The freckled woman smirks. 

“‘Cause you keep talkin’ about art ‘n shit. Acadia digs art, yeah? She’d dig smokin’.”

That… had to be blasphemy. Frea wrinkles her nose at the mere thought.

“Explain.”

Lauretta sits up, eyes eager like she’s been waiting to talk about this. “Think about it. Doin’ what I just did? Smokin’ can be its own art form. I don’t work with my hands but instead with my lungs, throat, and lips. With these tools I exhale…” She waves her hand around, “transitory sculptures that momentarily come together to create clouds of grey intoxication.” 

She grins wider, a finger and thumb coming to her chin as she stares at the smoke in front of her. 

“Sculptures of grey intoxication… Fuck yeah, that sounds badass. I’m patentin’ this shit.”

From the way she said that, Frea can tell this spiel is something she’s been practicing. 

“Be that as it may,” Frea says, “The smell is still horrid. If you must smoke, please do it outside.”

Lauretta puts out her cigarette. “Yeah, yeah. I guess smoking inside was kinda rude.” She’s about to leave, but Frea calls out to her.

“Oh yes, while you’re outside, can you clean the guns?”

Lauretta makes sure to heave a dramatic sigh and puts her hand to her chest, expression twisted in a theatrical grimace, “Aaaaah, Why do I gotta do chores? I’m the medic! I’m too important to do this.”

“It is a simple job that a five year old could do,” Frea smirks, “As we have no children available, you’ll have to do it.”

“Harsh! Again! You’re killing me here, Frey-Frey!”

Briefly taken aback by the sudden nickname— the very same nickname her brothers calls her— Frea blinks owlishly, before shaking herself and regaining her bearings.

“Ahem. The day I consider people’s feelings is the day my efficiency as a future politician comes to an end.”

To that, Lauretta unceremoniously gives her the middle finger with a smile, “Psh. I’m gonna go outside now, and maybe I’ll continue scopin’ out some men, ‘cause I ain’t…” she taps her chin in an exaggerated manner, “Now what do people say… ah, I ain’t a woman of integrity, intelligence, or energy! I need some man buns!” 

When she struts out, Frea has to suppress the urge to giggle.

Goddess, what would mother say about their strange form of banter? Especially when she essentially quoted her about being a politician? The action surprised even herself. She’s thought about it for a while now, but perhaps mingling with the common folk isn’t as churlish as she initially believed.

Her lips turn slightly downwards. Mother always told her not to get too close to her subjects. It makes her too soft as a noble and lawmaker. 

When she returns home, she’ll no doubt have her time to take photos cut short, as she’ll naturally be returning to her studies. To train to become the next Valentine Matriarch.

She taps her fingers on her leg, a strange sort of unease falling upon her. Mother doesn’t need to know she’s being so crude. And once she sees she’s been taking wonderful photographs and honouring Acadia, she’ll surely not care about it anyway. Being an artist, she’s still conducting herself worthy as a Valentine. 

_“Politician,”_ she called herself, despite the last time she attempted to join mother in one of her meetings she was completely rebuffed and told to stay home.

Bottled up insecurities of her hideous birthmarks and past failures in trying to become an artist threaten to quickly overwhelm her. 

_Calm down. Just take some photos. Take Aidan outside._

Outside.

When she had mentioned about going outside, she saw something in his eyes then. Enthusiasm or hope, one of those quiet, thrilling things. But he didn’t sign anything for her, didn’t explicitly tell her he wanted that. She expected a more exuberant and happy response, and instead she got a simple nod. Too lacklustre for her tastes. Her mind keeps replaying the interaction, as it usually does.

Half her brain gives her the reasons that Aidan is actually ecstatic and will show her his gratitude and the other bombards her with criticisms with how she handled just mentioning the word ‘outside.’ 

She sighs as she brings some tea to her lips. As she does so, Esme approaches her.

“So, you want Aidan to go outside.”

Frea hums. “Of course. He needs more enrichment. He probably needs some exercise, too.” 

Esme shrugs, “Just make sure you keep an eye on him. There’s quite a few craters from the bombing here, so he might fall. And there’s probably a bunch of other stuff to watch out for, like the traps, you know about those? And do you believe there is there any possibility the kid might run away?”

“Of course not. He may be like a frightened dog but he’s given me no indication he wishes to leave. As for your question, yes, I will keep an eye on him. I will be aware of traps, as well.”

Esme doesn’t make another comment after that. Frea wonders if getting Aidan outside will be some sort of challenge. She’d rather not force the man. It’s just going outside. There’s nothing complicated about that. 

In an attempt to stop thinking about possible hurdles about going outside, her mind drifts back to her previous insecurities.

Perhaps the leftover smoke from Lauretta’s so-called art is giving her a headache. She decides she’s done here, and returns back upstairs. Perhaps Aidan is awake. 

When she reaches the room, she’s greeted with a bundle of blankets at the corner. From the almost shaking rise and fall of it, she can tell Aidan is under it, but it makes her blink in surprise. 

She’s never seen him completely huddled in a blanket before. Just hiding there. Usually he at least has his head out. Is he asleep? She can’t tell. He gives her no indication that he’s aware of her presence either. 

No matter. If he’s asleep, she won’t bother him. He can sleep in if he wants to. 

Frea returns to her workstation, and she begins translating a new set of documents.

* * *

In the end, there doesn’t seem to be… much progress on Aidan’s end. He stays under his blanket. He doesn’t bother getting out. He makes almost no movement. 

Frea taps her pen on a page several times, eventually deciding that this is an issue she would _probably_ check up on. 

When she’s standing directly above him, there’s no movement. 

“Aidan?”

No response.

_Alright. This is definitely something that requires my attention._

Biting down the guilt for not checking immediately, she kneels down and gingerly takes the blanket off him.

He’s not sleeping, no, he’s just laying there quaking. Eyes wide and hands close to his face. 

Frea tries not to show her growing nervousness on her face or voice. “...Are you alright?”

She’s well aware the question is stupid, but it’s the only she can do when the man looks like he’s trying to escape from his own skin. She’s afraid to even touch him, because she feels as though he’ll freak out and scurry away like a frightened mouse.

When he finally looks at her, she can see his pupils shake. 

She talks slowly. “Aidan. Can you… sit up? Please? Are you hurt?”

And there’s a variety of other questions she wants to ask, too. Like _do you need any help, would you something to drink, what are you doing, did you have a nightmare?_ But she doesn’t want to overwhelm him, so she keeps those to herself.

With great visible exertion on his part, he sits up, though he’s still shivering like he’s got a cold. 

_Maybe he does have a cold? Somehow? Perhaps he needs another warm bath._

“Aidan, would you like me to get Lauretta to check up on you?”

No response, but now his eyes shift like he’s expecting someone to hit him. Though, that’s… more or less his default expression, so she doesn’t know if it _actually_ means anything and it infuriates her. She doesn’t like feeling helpless. She reminds herself she’s a High Noble and a Valentine. It was in her blood to _not_ feel this way. She’s not _allowed_ to show weakness.

Her anxiety travels in her veins but never makes it to her facial muscles or skin. Her complexion remains pale and still, her eyes as steady as if she were shopping for shoes. 

Then, an idea hits her. Something her mother always used to do when she got upset as a young girl. 

Within seconds she’s taking one of her bootlaces off, tying the ends together so it’s basically a circle. 

“Watch closely, Aidan.”

She loops the string around the back of both of her hands, just behind her knuckles. Her thumbs are outside the strands, and she rotates her hands so that the loop is doubled up around her palms.

From the way his brows crease, she can tell he’s confused, but at least he’s watching. Good. 

With one of her hands, she catches the inner strand of the looped string on her other palm with her middle finger. She does the same with her opposite hand, making sure to only grab the section in front. Then, Frea pulls the strands apart so that they form a double ‘X’ in the middle.

She smiles at Aidan, “This is called Cat’s Cradle. It’s a simple enough game. Would you like to try it yourself?”

He doesn’t respond, not that she really thought he would, but she takes the string off her nonetheless and gives it to him. 

“Here, try it. Do what I just did. You’d be amazed how this game can calm you down.”

He doesn’t seem very convinced, but he takes the string and slowly, awkwardly, loops it on his palms. He’s still shaking, though not as violently anymore. It takes him at least five tries, and her miming the movement, but he’s able to get the inner strand with his middle fingers. 

When he has his ‘X’ she makes sure to congratulate him. 

“Nicely done. Now, there’s more you can do with this game. Stay still for a moment.” Frea pinches the two center X’s of Cat’s Cradle with the thumb and forefinger of both of her hands. She then pulls the X’s around the outside of the bottom strands and up through the center.

“Slide your hands out of the string, Aidan, but do it gently.”

He does just that, but not before swallowing. He’s no longer shaking, but when he slides his hand, his skin just barely brushes hers and she thinks she can feel goosebumps. Her eyes flick to his, but he’s intently staring at the string and evidently trying his best not to look at her, so she goes back to looking at her hands.

The string now on her hands, Frea opens up her thumb and forefinger, resulting in a shape that’s very similar to Cat’s Cradle, but the finger positioning is different. 

Well, at least she’s feeling less anxious now. Hopefully it’s working on Aidan too. 

“This is called Soldier’s Bed,” she says, “Now, we can make another shape but I’ll need you to pinch the X in a similar way I just did. Can you do that?”

He doesn’t look very confident— when has he ever?— but he does as he’s asked. It’s awkward, and she has to instruct him step by step. Eventually, she gets him where she wants him, with the X’s intersected lengthwise and his fingers facing her hands.

“Now, bring the X’s around the outside and up through the middle.”

He does, and she slowly takes her hands away. She gently takes his wrists, not missing how he stiffens, and pulls them so that the string becomes taut and spreads his thumb and forefinger to form a. internal pattern of parallel lines.

She congratulates him again, “Nicely done. This shape is called Candles.” She looks at him, “There are great many shapes you can do with a simple string. Would you like to continue?”

Cat’s Cradle is a game that technically lasts forever since it loops, and she hopes because of that he’ll be able to… get into it, she supposes. Enjoy it some way like she does. He does seem calmer, and mostly just bewildered. He’s probably confused about why she did this in the first place, and, well, if she were to wake up on the wrong side of the bed and someone threw some string at her she supposes she’d be a tad confused as well.

Aidan keeps staring at the string wrapped around his hands and fingers. He brings his face close to it, inspecting every inch of it like he’s gobsmacked that he was able to make such a shape. 

His big green eyes meet hers, and he nods. It takes her a moment to realize he wants to continue. So she does, and they make a multitude of different shapes, switching the string from one another. Eventually, they fail one, and essentially have to start over. She doesn’t say they failed, doesn’t mention anything that would make Aidan think he did something wrong. He just thinks it’s part of the game.

Suffice to say, they don’t do much else, and they don’t go outside for that day. Not when Aidan had been the way he was. Frea figures he just wasn’t ready yet.

She keeps the fact that she finds him very pretty to herself.

* * *

Aidan lies on the hard floor, eyes closed and waiting for the usual arrival of the Elder. Despite it being winter, the night seems unusually cold. It’s never very chilly here, but now he finds him shivering a bit. He hopes the Elder will do her ritual and put the blanket on him soon.

A part of him wants to continue making shapes with the string, but he knows he should sleep. When she first commanded he put the string on him, he thought she was going to tie his wrists together and he was petrified, but then, they just made… X’s and things. It was strangely satisfying.

On cue, the footsteps arrive. They creak against the stairs, and soon the door croaks softly when it’s opened. Ordinarily, the sound would drive him close to tears. Now, he looks forward to it. 

Despite how they met, he thinks he likes the Elder.

She does what she usually does. The blanket is put on him, but she doesn’t immediately leave. Instead, her hand… strokes his back, with the cover still on him.

It’s a light, feathery touch. If he were still with father he might have thought it was soothing.

But it reminds him of— of Master and friends, of their hands caressing him before they slither underneath what he’s wearing. 

It makes him jolt and before he knows it, he’s sitting up with his back against the wall.

His breathing is shallow, but it quickens considerably when he realizes what he just did.

_Idiot._

The Elder is on her rear now, his sudden movement no doubt taking her for surprise. Her expression tells him that much.

_Moron._

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. He did something wrong. He moved too quickly. He revealed he was awake the whole time. Stupidstupidstupid. The Elder is the only one that showed violence against him, so surely she’s not as benevolent as she seems. He doesn’t actually like her. No, he’s terrified and now he did something worthy of a punishment and—

The Elder’s finger goes to her lips. He clamps his mouth shut, realizing that his breathing had become rapid and loud.

Once he had done that, her expression seems to soften, though she’s neither smiling or frowning. He can’t quite tell what she’s thinking now— but… he followed an order. He became quiet. So maybe she’s not as angry now.

After a few moments, her hand becomes a fist and he wants nothing more to curl up in a ball and cry.

Before he can close his eyes in preparation for the impact, her fist… goes to her chest. Then it goes in a circle.

He blinks. 

She circles her chest with her hand several more times.

This— This has a meaning. He knows what it is, but… why? How? Can she sign—?

_ <Sorry.> _

He can only blink again. She keeps running circles with her fist. Keeps signing _sorry._ What— Why? Why, why why? What on earth could she apologize for? Maybe… Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s saying to him? 

Despite that, he finds himself nodding fitfully to show he can understand her.

The corners of her lips turn upwards, just slightly. Now he’s more confused than ever. 

And she only confuses him more with her next action.

Her hand and fingers move. She’s signing again. Her movements are slow, but clearly practiced. Each letter is clearly defined and he knows what she’s saying. 

_ <Esme.> _

Then she points to herself.

What is she— Oh. A name? That’s a weird name.

He keeps that to himself, obviously. 

Aidan has an instinctual response, she gave her name so it’s only natural he gives his. That’s what father taught him. ‘Manners,’ he called it, though Master’s brand of manners included kissing her boots. What is the Eld— Esme’s version of manners like? He hopes it’s like father’s. 

He signs his name, then points at himself. He makes sure to go as slowly as she did. 

Esme’s lips just barely part. She studies him, and he wonders if she understood anything. Then she nods once, mouth forming a full smile. 

She points at her nose, then signs sorry again. 

Maybe he should pinch himself. Is he actually dreaming? Are Asnainians secretly really apologetic and don’t mean it when they punch people? That wouldn’t really surprise him at this point. 

He has no idea how she expects him to respond, but he nods to show he understands again. She nods back, then scratches her head, expression looking slightly… amused. 

She wraps the blanket around him and leaves. 

Aidan doesn’t sleep much that night. He just thinks about what happened.

* * *

She's doing her ritual again. Etching more shapes, and what did she call it, praying? She's talking to her Mother. But it's only her and him in this room so he doesn't really understand how he's speaking to her. She's not even moving her mouth. 

But what does he know? He's never spoken with his Mother. Maybe it just works differently from talking with a father. 

She had also said something about incense. He doesn’t know what that is. He wonders what it has to do with anything.

He's fiddling with a proper string now, not a bootlace. He's made some shapes here and there, done some puzzles, and so on. Something nags at him. 

He should clean, so he does. If he doesn't, he'll just feel antsy over not being useful. He already neglected his duties as the main homemaker yesterday because of that pointless memory. He's such a… terrible slave. Every day when he wakes up, he wonders why these people haven't gotten rid of him already. They're _too_ nice. And stupid. But he's already accepted that a while ago. 

He's stupid, they're stupid. Maybe it's only natural they're together.

He needs to stop thinking about it, and about anything else, really. Slaves shouldn't think.

He just cleans. That's simple and it makes him feel better. 

The dust and shattered glass has been collected, and he's rearranged the fallen books at this point. He can't read, but Master had told him to arrange them based on their colours and numbers, and said something about volumes and editions. So he did just that, but some books were missing, or just torn to shreds. Hopefully that won't get him into too much trouble. 

He's lined up skewed photo frames. Most of the paintings inside are torn. 

It doesn't matter. He can't do anything about it except be blamed for the state of the place when Master comes back. 

Anxious at the thought of her return, he decides it's time to get Frea's regularly scheduled tea so he starts toward the stairs without her so much as looking at him. From that, he's pretty sure she's the type of woman who's been served in this way before. Does she have her own slave back at Asnain? 

A part of that makes… makes him feel funny.

Not that it matters what he thinks. 

He descends the stairs, and goes to the kitchen. It’s not Lauretta at the pot, rather it’s Esme. And it’s not a pot, but a kettle. Seems like today is a tea day.

He’s gotten a drink from Esme once or twice since he’s started his routine. He does his usual thing, pointing at the drink then pointing to himself. And Esme does her usual response, nodding. 

She pours the drink in the cup. Then she sets it aside, which confuses him. Her and Lauretta typically give it to him at this point and he’s walking up the stairs with perhaps too much speed. 

Esme pours another cup. The two cups are placed next to each other and he stares at them. He watches her point at one before moving her fingers to sign. 

_ <Frea’s.> _

Yes, of course. That is Frea’s drink. That’s what he came for. Did she forget? 

Esme points at the other one.

_ <Yours.> _

Aidan’s searches her expression for any hidden meaning but finds none. He can’t really read anything about this woman half the time and it intimidates him. He’s never done anything but only get Frea’s drink, so he’s unsure why it’s apparently different now.

He nods anyway and she gives him Frea’s drink. He’s about to turn to go back to his destination before hearing a quick ‘ _oi’_ and he turns back. 

_ <Yours.> _Esme signs again and practically shoves the second cup at him. 

He blinks, mentally chastising himself for almost walking away without taking the tea. That was rude. That was _so_ rude and he wants to slap himself for being so thick-headed. He was just so dumbfounded that he’s supposed to drink whatever this is that his mind pretty much blocked out the idea of actually taking it. There are some things he’s not supposed to imbibe in. Surely tea is one of them.

Then again, he wasn’t supposed to drink hot chocolate either, but they still made him drink it without consequence.

He takes the cup and nods, before quickly turning to leave. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he might see someone light a cigarette, and his steps become more hasty.

* * *

Frea wordlessly drinks her tea and Aidan kneels at his usual corner. The cup is warm in his hands, steam floating from the liquid. He’s still unsure about drinking this, it’s new and he’s never been allowed before.

But… well, Esme technically ordered him, didn’t she? 

He takes a sip—

Father downed the drink like he hadn’t drunken anything for a week. There was a fleeting expression on his face that showed malcontent, yet soon he was smiling broadly once more as if nothing was wrong at all. Aidan glanced down at the mug, thick, ceramic, cold to touch. 

_“Nothing like some jasmine tea in the morning,” Father had said, “I know you might be a bit young to be drinking caffeine, but, eh, why not? Go ahead and have a sip, Aidan.”_

He did just that. It was tepid. And a bit bitter. It must have shown on his face because father laughed. 

_“Ah, sorry. It’s probably not that warm anymore and it’s a bit hard to make proper tea here. I swear, though, tea can be great.”_

—Aidan clenches his jaw. So he _had_ drunk tea before but… the memory had been hidden deep within his mind. Buried. Forgotten. And now it swam back to the surface.

This tea is _much_ better than the one he had with father. Perhaps it was ‘proper’ tea. Has father ever had proper tea before? When was the last time he actually drank something he enjoyed? 

He purses his lips, eying the swirling liquid and only seeing father’s face in the reflection. His smile was limp. Eyes sunken in. Lips cracked. Body bruised. 

He sets the cup to the side and doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t like tea. It reminds him of someone he’s better off not thinking about. 

Aidan simply kneels there until Frea is done.

* * *

“I think it’s high time we go outside, hmm?” Frea says after stretching her arms. Aidan seems normal today, so surely this is the best chance to do it. She’s finished her work, and she can only assume he’s a bit stiff from kneeling all day.

He nods. She wishes he would at least… say more. Give her something else.

She stands, pats her legs, and smiles at him. “Well, come on. I’m sure we could both use some fresh air.”

It doesn’t take long for them to go outside, and suffice to say, the outdoors is not exactly prime viewing. Frea watches Aidan closely regardless with her camera, searching for anything on his face.

None come. He looks pretty blank and she sighs. It’s not the reaction she was hoping for, but she takes a few photos regardless. 

She just wishes he would give her a full smile for once.

Though, in fairness, there’s not much to look at. Even someone who’s been trapped in some basement and freed for the first time would be disappointed at the sight. 

To anyone, it was clear this yard was once a battlefield. Craters litter the area from the multiple strikes, it was dust and dirt, all baked under an unrelenting sun. There are grand, massive trees that have been upturned and their roots visible. The fence surrounding the estate is in tatters. It’s a miracle that the house is even still standing in the first place. 

Her mind goes back to a passage she read while the war was still raging on about two years ago.

_The battlefield lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of the unburied. Their corpses lay among the buttercups and forget-me-nots. The sun still shone and the wind still blew, but somewhere mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters waited in vain. These women that were once girls who played in the yard with sticks and laughed at each other's silly tales were now meat for the birds.Their eyes were as immobile as their limbs._

Her jaw tightens. If she had the chance to enlist in the army sooner, where would she be right now? Would she have found the glory she so desperately seeks? Would she have made mother proud?

Where would Aidan be?

With that thought, she puts her hands together in a quick prayer for the fallen, then she turns to Aidan. 

“You can walk around if you’d like. Don’t go too far, alright? I will be taking pictures of the surrounding area if you need me.”

* * *

Aidan appraises the surrounding area. He’s not sure why he’s been brought here.

The air is… Air. There’s nothing really special about it but apparently both he and Frea needed it. If he were honest with himself, he mainly just wants to do that strange string game again.

He _could_ walk around. His legs do feel stiff. And he needs to be physically active. He can’t lose his physique because that’d reflect poorly on Master. He should probably stretch, too. Flexibility was always something Master and her friends liked about him. 

He strolls around, mindful of the holes that are present every few steps. There’s not much to look at, and it was at this moment that Aidan realizes he doesn’t hear the usual symphony of song birds that are typically here. When had the birds stopped singing? A long time ago, he thinks, ever since he started hearing all that clanging and pattering in the far distance.

He hopes the birds come back soon. Whenever he was locked in a room that had no light for bad behaviour they always sang, no matter what. It was the one saving grace from the darkness.

Aidan only takes a couple of steps before something catches in his eyes. A glint of some kind. It makes him wince.

When his vision refocuses the glint hits his eyes again and he moves his hand over his face in surprise. Something must be reflecting from the setting sun. The sunlight now filters through the treeline, where it struck the forest floor the last vestiges of autumn colour could be seen. The glint, light, whatever it was, flashes at him again, and he tries to pinpoint where it came from. 

He finds it. Somewhere in some evergreen shrubs and bushes. The spark of light seems to beckon him forward to see what it is. 

It’s probably just a piece of glass. There’s definitely a couple of those lying around, but a curiosity still gnaws at him. This seems different from glass catching the sunlight. 

Frea’s words replay in his mind.

_“Don’t go too far, alright?”_

The bushes are about… well, he doesn’t know how far away they are. Doesn’t know the first thing about what may be considered ‘too far’. It’s by the edge of the yard, if he were to describe it. That’s a reasonable distance, isn't it? Anyone can walk up to it. He wouldn’t be doing anything _bad_ by walking up to it, would he? 

The Asnainians have let him off with a couple of things he thought they would beat him for. Perhaps they’d excuse him walking to some bushes. They seem lenient for the most part.

Frea won’t mind. And— And Master isn’t here. 

He really wants to see what’s so shiny.

Aidan makes his way to the shrubbery. 

When he makes it there, he sees something he didn’t expect at all. A wire. He thinks it’s a wire, anyway, it looks a bit too thin to be one but he doesn’t know what else to call it. If it didn’t shine in his eyes he would have never known this was here, even if he were just a step away from it— it’s that thin. He crouches down to appraise it further. 

It’s tied to one of the thicker stems of the bush. He can’t see where the other side is tied because it disappears into some leaves.

Someone could trip over this if they walked over it.

He tilts his head, trying to determine why this is even here in the first place. This is still on Master’s property, but he doesn’t think she tied this wire here. There’s no reason to, is there? 

Then again… Master is fond of musical instruments, the kind where you pluck at some strings and they make a noise. This can’t be the same thing, can it? If Aidan were to pluck it, would it make a song like some of Master’s toys? 

He hears footsteps approaching, and it doesn’t take long until he knows who it is. 

“Aidan? Oh, there you are.” Frea says, and she keeps walking towards him. “Hey, there are some trees that haven’t been uprooted yet, I was thinking it would be a good opportunity to take your photo, if you don’t mind.”

She’s not angry, he can tell that much from her tone. So, he didn't do anything wrong again. He can do a great many things with Asnainians. Very lenient people, indeed.

His arm reaches for the wire. Maybe she’ll like the music that comes from it.

Her voice perks up behind him, “What are you—”

His fingertip is at the edge of the wire when a _screech_ pierces his skull. 

_“—Don’t!!”_

It made the hair strand straight up on the back of Aidan’s neck. Master had screamed at him a great many times, but this felt like the loudest scream he had ever heard. It makes his entire body go completely rigid.

It was hysterical.

It was disbelief. 

It was _terror._

Then, a hand grabs the back of his shirt and throws him back with so much strength he chokes on a gasp. No sooner when he lands on his back with a harsh thud does he hear something _much_ louder than Frea’s scream. It makes his ears ring.

The ground shakes so violently he thinks he might fall through it, but that wasn’t as bad as the blinding flash that accompanied it. 

It was like the same fireball when he was still hiding in the manor, before he had met Frea and the others. It belched upwards, heaving red dust and particles in the evening air that fly everywhere. He can feel the heat. Can feel the sweat washing over him like a waterfall.

It was exactly in the same spot at the wire. The wire Frea pulled him from.

_Frea._

Heart feeling like it’s about to crawl out of his throat, he frantically looks around for her before realizing her prone body is directly by his feet. And then—

* * *

Frea awoke with a pulsating headache and a booming ringing in her ears. She groans, realizing she’s caked in dirt and grime and was probably thrown fifteen feet in the air. 

She shakes her head, immediately regretting the choice because it feels like her brain hits against her skull. She groans again before seeing the bits and pieces of what was once her camera strewn across the grass.

_Damn. What… what happened?_

Then she sees a pair of feet in front of her.

Her eyes follow up the body, seeing Aidan and relief flooding her when she sees he’s unscathed.

Her relief is quickly replaced with concern.

His body tells her everything. He somehow screams with his whole body. The eyes wide with horror, the mouth rigid and open, his chalky face gaunt and immobile, fists clenched with blanched knuckles and the nails digging deeply into the palms of his hand. 

And he’s not looking at her face. He’s looking further below her body.

Throat dry and body numb, she follows his gaze.

She sees it.

“Ah... haa…” Frea gasps out, all words leaving her as her entire body convulses from the sight.

Where there had been smooth skin of her lower legs is torn muscle and blood, as raw as any carcass at the butchers. Wet, weeping flesh in various shades of pink, red and scorched black with whiteness of the bone that shine out in the sea of tissue.

“Gah...h-haah…” Her pants are wet and hoarse at the same time, her eyes only focusing on the bloody mess in front of her. The ringing in her head becomes louder, so loud it’s the only thing she hears. Her heart beat in her chest, pounding, banging, trying to get out.

_My legs._

_Mylegsmylegsmylegsmylegsmylegsmylegs—_

Even in the twilight the gushing blood glints red under the sun. The liquid leaves her body in surges but it isn’t a constant flow, but in time with the beating of her heart. At first it came thick and strong, flowing through ripped skin and muscle. After a few moments more the blood was still leaving her body, but the pulses were slower, weaker.

When the adrenaline subsides, the pain hit her.

Frea can only do one thing.

She screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 will be posted tomorrow since I don't think I'll change that much from the original, if at all. 
> 
> Also... considering Aidan's flashbacks and this tidbit of gore... Think I'm gonna bump this thing's rating to E, lol. And add a rape/non-con warning 'cause Aidan's entire existence is sad boy hours.


	6. Chapter 6

They were definitely going to kill him now.

There was absolutely no way they’d let him off  _ this.  _ Asnainian tolerance can only go so far, surely. They’re going to give him a lashing, lock him in a dark room, starve him to death…  _ something.  _ They had to do something. 

He can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t even see where he’s going. Everything is just a blur. Everything was just gone. He pauses trying to hold back the strange feelings rumbling inside him but he couldn’t.

They had dragged Frea away and the only thing on his mind was how she cried with more violence than any gale. The screaming sobs are only interrupted by her need to draw breath, it was a primal sound. It made his chin tremble as if he were a small child. Each new wave of her sobbing was a hot trail of agony for him, the noise making him feel as though he’s been hit by endless needles.

Esme had grabbed him by the wrist at some point. She dragged him back. And now he’s just trying to get in control with his movements again. When she got him back in the manor he fell on his knees, hands shaking uncontrollably. 

Esme didn’t do anything with him. All he heard was her thundering steps walking away from him, presumably for Frea. But he’s not left alone, one of the soldiers watches him like a hawk.

She’s got a gun, so he stays where he is. Doesn’t dare move and every second is pure torture as he waits for someone to finally punish him. He deserves that much. He deserves so much fucking punishments. He deserves to be flayed alive. He deserves to be drowned. He deserves— deserves  _ everything  _ painful that will happen to him. 

None of that happens, instead it’s something much worse.

Frea’s wailing gets louder and he thinks the walls shake with each utterance. 

There was only one thing he could do. 

Aidan brings his knees to his chest, all the blood draining from his face with a gaunt expressionless stare. He put his still shaking hands on his ears and pressed down.

It didn’t help block the sounds in the slightest, but he keeps pressing and burying his face in his knees. His shoulders shake in each rake of emotion through his frame. Fire of shame and anger burns just under his skin and a deep emptiness fills his heart as the sentiment of just not wanting to be here brews over and boils past the seams he could no longer hold together. 

His breathing hitched, and soon he joined the chorus of crying.

* * *

Frea thinks she might have died.

Then she kept waking up. 

She prefers to be unconscious, because then she doesn’t have to taste the coppery blood in her mouth. She can feel it grazing her teeth and soaking her tongue. She’d rather not feel so miserable, too, as wailing for what felt like hours made her exhausted. She feels the aching and cracks in her bones. Each crack felt like rocks were burrowing into her skin. She sucks in cramped air, feeling her lungs caving in on themselves.

It’s dark now. Or at least, she thinks it is. Or maybe it’s the black spots in her vision that’s making it look later than it actually is. She hears a buzzing noise, filling her ears. She fades from consciousness.

Fading and waking, fading and waking. Fading…

When she wakes again, she jolts upward. Her movements are more like a convulsion than anything else.

A dream— it was all just a dream. A nightmare. She had thought herself awake but she couldn't be. This is a nightmare of sorts, more vicious than most, more lucid.

She gags on nothing when she sees the bandaged stumps in front of her. There’s something in her arm, probably some medical apparatus she doesn’t know or care about, not when she’s suddenly clawing at the blood soaked bandages in front of her.

A hand grabs her shoulder, forcing her down and she’d scream and wail again if she had any strength left. 

“Woah there, relax, just lay back down.” That’s Esme’s voice, and when Frea’s vision finally clears and focuses, she sees the older woman wearing a look of concern.

Somehow, it pisses her off. Part of her thinks Esme’s here to laugh at her.  _ Everyone _ must be laughing at her. How could they not? She’s the perfect image of an  _ idiot.  _

Instinctively, her hands go to her face. She feels her birthmarks— not covered with any of the powdery makeup she usually wears. The fact just serves to make her feel even more miserable. She feels naked having these hideous marks out in the open, her mind playing back the memories of when people used to jeer at her. 

Esme speaks again, “Breathe, Frea, take deep and slow breaths.”   
  
Frea heaves a wet hiccup, “My… My feet—” Her voice trails off to a soft whimper, thoughts swirling in her head that maybe there’s a possibility her limbs were saved and she just needs to stay in bed for however long it’ll take to heal. 

The second Esme looks away from her, she knows that’s not the case. 

“Both your feet are… gone, Frea. Lauretta’s—”

At that moment, Frea jolts upwards again, hand grabbing onto Esme’s sleeve as her voice becomes jittery and stuttery, “Where is she? She’s a medic, c-can’t she fix this? Just— Just attach them back or—”

She’s pushed back down and she tries to slow her breathing. 

“Lauretta’s done what she can. She’s been with you for hours now and I’ve told her to go to sleep because she looked ready to collapse. I’ll wake her if anything goes wrong but right now,” the older woman offers Frea a glass of water, but she doesn’t take it, “You need to rest. I’ve sent a telegraph and first thing in the morning you’ll be getting a carriage to get a train back to Asnain. Lauretta will accompany you.”

Esme’s expression falters, “And I’ll catch up later. I’ll need to speak with your family, obviously, but right now I have to report to my superiors.” She looks back at Frea, “Just rest. Like I said, I’ll wake Lauretta if there’s anything that needs tending to.”

There’s a moment of silence, except for a slight ringing in Frea’s ears that refuses to stop. 

After a minute, the older woman speaks again, “Aidan’s fine, too. He’s obviously stressed and he’s been crying for a while but physically he’s alright.”

The comment makes her clench her fists. 

“He’s only alright because I pulled him away from activating a tripwire.” She says through gritted teeth. What was he even  _ doing?  _ She specifically told him not to go too far. Should she have told him not to do anything life threatening? Does she have to fucking spell it out for him?

And now here she is, reaping the consequences  _ he  _ sowed. 

Esme just watches her, and Frea has to blink away a new onset of tears and she thinks she might just grind her teeth to dust. 

Her feet are gone. Probably just chunks of flesh on the field. She’d be surprised if they were still there and not taken away by a flock of crows.

A part of her tries to convince herself it’s still just a horrible dream, but the memory of the bomb keeps replaying as if somehow her brain was unwilling to let the images go and in it's attempt to analyse them made her see it all over again.

Her own mind is quickly becoming her worst enemy and the thing that would most likely destroy her.

Her hands go to her hair, and she pulls, her mind and soul just entirely sure about how the fuck she’s supposed to deal with any of this. Her lips quiver, and she can feel herself pulling on her hair roots. 

Before Esme can say anything about it, she exhales a shaky breath. 

“You— You were right.”

“...Pardon?”

Frea keeps her hands in her hair but she closes her eyes, “I was in over my head. I was i-intemperate in my youth when I decided to have Aidan as my muse. I was… so _fucking_ stupid.” She grinds out.

Somehow, swearing almost feels cathartic. The thought makes a humourless smile spread across her lips. Maybe she’s becoming delusional. She certainly feels like she may be hallucinating, because next she lets out a giggle that’s just as humourless. 

“Now, look at me. I’m a cripple now. I may as well be dead.”

Esme grabs her wrists, trying to pull her hands away from her hair but she’s still got an iron grip on her curls. 

“Frea,” she pleads, “Just— just stop. I know it’s hard but you need to relax,” she touches her cheek next, not quite a slap but awfully close, “Come on. You’ve still got breath in your lungs. You’ll get through this.”

_ No I won’t. I’m finished. _

Frea thinks about her legs. Of how they’re stumps just below her knees. 

If she doesn’t tear herself apart, her peers will. 

Her birthmarks had been a constant source of insecurity her fellow High Nobles had cruelly and relentlessly used against her. But she could always cover it up and ignore unsavoury rumours. It was something manageable. _This,_ however? There was no way to manage this monstrosity. 

The only cripples she knows are beggars and thieves. Even valiant heroes hide their prosthetics because they’re a source of shame. A  _ weakness.  _ Something to be exploited. Frea is intimately aware how much High society hinges on dehumanizing your competition. Her feet being gone will be ripe material for them to scrutinize and gleefully deride. 

The Valentines are a family of lawmakers. No one wants to follow the laws proposed by some fucking  _ dullard  _ who stupidly got her goddamn feet blown off. No one wants to see the photos taken by her. Not anymore. She might as well not be a person.

_ “The day I consider people’s feelings is the day my efficiency as a politician comes to an end.” _

_ Mother always told her not to get too close to her subjects. It makes her too soft as a noble and lawmaker.  _

She hiccups. She was too soft. She had become… acquaintances with Lauretta, and she’s intensely aware of how fond she was becoming of Aidan.

And now look at her. She couldn’t be a proper noble so she tried being an artist as a way to cope. Now she’s a pathetic cripple. All because of  _ Aidan. _

Why did she ever think she could try to be both a lawmaker and a photographer? Why did she think she could try juggling both of those? Why did she think she could ever be anything with these birthmarks? These  _ defects? _

Her reputation finished, she quickly thinks about her mother. She had had a harem, one she dismissed after Frea was born because she finally had an heir. Is it possible for mother to get another man to hopefully try for another daughter? Is that possible? There’s no way Frea can become the head of the family now. She can’t allow the Valentine name to become a joke because of her actions. She’s a joke. She’ll be lucky if she isn’t just disowned.

Her hands stay in her hair, and she knows Esme is still in front of her but she doesn’t see anything, her mind too frayed to focus on anything. 

_ Acadia preaches both outer and inner beauty. _

Back to being haunted by these fucking things on her face. She’s hideous because of her birthmarks, and her idiotic decisions prove she doesn’t have anything on the inside, either. Acadia wants her children to be artists? Frea can’t do that. Cripples aren’t artists. They aren’t beautiful. They aren’t anything. Having a prosthetic or lacking limbs wasn’t natural. It wasn’t beautiful. Being a cripple was like tearing at the canvas Acadia had so painstakingly painted. It was an insult to her.

_ “What are we if not the stories we tell, my children?” _

What story will she tell? One of abject failure, no doubt. 

She lets out another delusional laugh, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. Somewhere, Esme says something but she can’t make out what it is.

She had gone from gregarious to hanging by a thread, a transformation no-one knew how to reverse. She’s losing her mind. That must be it. She can feel it unraveling, the threads of every happy memory she could ever once recall, all but a disarray of strings scattered about her feet. When her hands become unsteady it’s finally pried away from her hair. She opens her mouth, but not a sound comes out, her head violently quivering as if there is a drill to the back of her skull. Her eyes see nothing; they have lost all sight of what is and what could have been. From her silent scream, saliva drips from behind her teeth and onto the ground, stained with the memory of every achievement she’s ever earned. They’re useless memories now. 

Just as useless as her.

Her consciousness fades once more.

* * *

When next she wakes, she’s on unsteady ground. It takes her a moment to realize she’s in a carriage that has several horses galloping with speeds that would get anyone in trouble in Asnain. It’s a significantly larger carriage than normal ones, and she can tell it must be an ambulance wagon.

When she tries to sit up, a hand yet again pushes her back down. Why does no one want her to sit up right? It’s her legs that are gone, not her damn back. 

“Easy there,” Lauretta says, “Just relax. We’ll get to the train station soon.”

Frea begins grinding her teeth again. It takes what little self control she still has not to snap at the medic. Everyone wants her to lie down. To  _ relax.  _ How is she possibly supposed to relax in this situation? How can anyone tell her to do anything when they don’t know a thing about what she’s going through?

She lays down anyway. Lauretta smiles down at her, but it’s forced. 

“Damn, girl, you really gave us a scare there. I really had to pull out everything I knew to patch you back up. More stressful than any test I’ve taken, heh.”

Frea just stares at her. Is she supposed to respond to that? Apologize for fucking inconveniencing her? She grimaces, and Lauretta drops her infuriating smile. 

The freckled medic mutters, “Sorry, sorry. Just… y’know, trying to lighten up the mood. Clearly I shouldn’t. I’ll shut up now.”

After she says that, Frea thinks she’ll sleep again. Or at least try to. She just wants to drift back into unconsciousness so she doesn’t have to go through any of this. 

A part of her even considers asking Lauretta for a smoke. Her life is ruined, so why not ruin her lungs, too? If anything it’ll be a great opportunity just to kill herself faster.

As she’s thinking that, she sees a flurry of blond hair from the corner of her eyes. When she turns her head, she sees Aidan who’s staring at nothing. He looks as though he’s trying to become one with the seat with how he sits in it. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes red-rimmed and lips trembling. 

Before she can think of anything, she hisses towards Lauretta. “What is he doing here?”

The medic blinks, eyes flicking between Aidan and Frea. 

“We can’t just leave him in Utreau. You said yourself you’d take him with you when you return to Asnain.” She awkwardly scratches her hair, another forced smile popping up, “Granted, that was before… all this. But still, you’re the only one who can properly speak with him and he obviously cares for you. It’d be cruel to leave him.”

Frea’s eye twitches.  _ Cruel?  _ His life was fucking  _ saved  _ because of her and now she’s supposed to continue to accommodate him?

She feels something inside of her. An emotion she can’t quite pinpoint. It makes her bite her cheek.

“And where will he go? Will he come with me to the hospital, or to my home? In a foreign country where he doesn’t understand anything?”

Lauretta blanches, “Well, I— I don’t know. D-Didn’t you say you’d keep him a servant?”

If she could reach over and slap this woman, she would. “That was  _ before  _ I had my fucking feet blown off!” She screams, and despite the rapid movement of the horses outside and the sounds of their hooves, time seemed to stop. Everything was silent, and Frea knows both Lauretta and Aidan are holding their breaths.

She realizes her own breathing has become erratic, and she turns her body around so she doesn’t have to face anyone. 

_ “Leave me alone,”  _ she doesn’t actually say it, but her message is clear enough. 

* * *

At some point, they stop somewhere and set up camp. Frea finds herself lying on a dirty blanket and pillow, Lauretta having replaced her bandages and injected her with something. Now she’s alone and stares blankly at the ceiling.

She closes her eyes for an extended period of time, then opens them.

She’s still in the tent. Once again, she realizes this hasn’t all been a dream.

_ I can’t walk. _

She’s not sure she’ll ever be truly used to that fact. Accepting that she’s well and truly a cripple is a hard pill to swallow, and it makes her want to scream again.

Of course, she’ll likely be getting prosthetics when she gets back home, but she’ll never be able to walk  _ normally. _ What will mother say? Her brothers? Will they gasp and kick her out for being such an embarrassment? mother had always been fond of ‘tough love’ so maybe that’s exactly what’ll happen. She’s a horrible thing to look at. Her sight will just traumatise her brothers, so she needs to avoid them.

Even if she walks again with prosthetics, where does she go from there? She had  _ plans  _ for her future, and now everything is just one big blank page.

_ What did I do wrong, Acadia? What did I do to deserve this? _

Was she doomed from the start? Was this a grand scheme from the Holy Mother herself? Did she do some horrendous sin she wasn’t even aware of? 

_ Tell me what I did wrong. _

Was she destined from birth to be a failure? Having those ugly birthmarks sure seems to confirm that. Is she to be made an example of? So Acadia’s  _ better  _ children don’t end up like her?

She was told that faith is a fickle thing by her mother once. Now, she finally understands what that means.The more the wallows in her woes and thinks about her situation, the more she thinks her faith will float away from her, like a leaf being pulled away on the tide, and into the sea to become lost and alone, likely drowning. 

But she still wants to rescue it. She doesn’t want her beliefs to drown like that. She’s grown up with it and lived by it and as much as her current predicament pains her to very core it’s not something she’s ready to let go just yet. It’s the only comfort she has, despite her questioning her Goddess’ motives.

Another borderline delusional giggle escapes her lips, and her vision becomes glossy from a new set of tears.

_ If being a cripple is to be my destiny, then I’ll become the best fucking one there is. I’ll be the greatest example of what not to be. Would you like that, Acadia?  _

Before she can decide to try to tear her hair out again, there’s movement behind the tent flap. 

Aidan comes inside, and with every tentative step he makes towards her he doesn’t make a single second of eye contact. His gaze is pointed downwards, and soon, he’s kneeling by her side.

Frea is too gobsmacked to make a coherent thought.

The man before her moves, producing a set of string on his palms and he finally looks at her. His expression is shaky, eyes still red rimmed and puffy. 

His fingers move, jittery and nervous, but soon enough he’s able to produce the X for Cat’s Cradle. He smiles, or at least tries to, and brings his hands closer to her. 

She blinks. Once, twice. Something builds up inside of her, and she practically growls at him.

“...I’m not in the mood.”

His shoulders stiffens at her harsh tone, and he drops his hands. 

_ Again with looking so pathetic. What did he think would happen? That’d everything would be solved from playing a fucking game with string? _

She grinds her teeth. Cat’s Cradle may have worked for him the other day but he didn’t have his limbs blown off. He doesn’t  _ get it.  _ No one here does. He doesn’t know  _ anything _ about what she’s feeling and the thought makes her more agitated than before. 

Cat’s Cradle now off the table, Aidan seems to decide on something else. He rummages through his pocket, and soon presents her with the fabric with the etched symbols she prayed with. 

The moment she sees it, she slaps it out of his hands. 

“Go away,” she hisses. How  _ dare  _ he bring something so personal to her? In the middle of her fucking crisis in faith, no less? These little trinkets are the last thing she wants to see, and the more he looks at Aidan the more malicious she begins to feel. Too many emotions bubble inside her, and for the second time today she just wants to be left alone.

She turns so her back is facing him, and eventually she hears her steps leave the tent.

* * *

_ “My, you must be quite fond of getting in trouble.” _

Yes, that was right. He had such a penchant for trouble. He may not understand what he did wrong most of the time, but perhaps he was just too stupid to understand. Master circled him, and he obediently stayed kneeling where he was and completely naked. He’s shivering, not from any coldness— it was warm— but because he knew what was going to happen and he was scared.

She had already whipped him a few days prior for an entirely different offense— he had apparently embarrassed her in front of someone else because he moved without her permission to use the toilet. The lashes still stung, and it had easily oozed blood when she doled out the punishment. It stung even more when she roughly put an ointment on his wounds. 

She stood behind him. She leaned down and pressed her index finger against a center of a cut and he sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiralled all across his body. Colourful spots contoured the sides of his eyes and he had to bite his lip from the pain of it all.

_ “Oh,”  _ she said, purposefully dragging out the word before clicking her tongue. She pressed harder, and he had to stop himself leaning forward to escape her touch. 

_ “You like that, don’t you?”  _ Master said, and he heard her footsteps come around him. When he saw her face, she curled her lips in a half smile.

She spat on his face.  _ “Slut.” _

She’s right, of course, as she always is. He’s a whore. He was destined to be one since birth and even if he tells himself he doesn’t like to get hit, he always gets hard. He has to get hard. If he doesn’t she’ll just hit him more. 

Master’s foot made contact with his shoulder and she harshly pushed him down. When he back hit the floor he didn’t bother hiding the cry that escaped his lips. The pressure on his back increased when she sat on his chest, and her hands slithered towards his throat.

The entire time, she had a wolfish grin. 

When her hands went around his neck and pressed down, he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the first time she strangled him, and he’s sure it wouldn’t be the last. 

His breathing quickly became constricted. He writhed. He broke a fingernail from scratching at the floor. His breath turned from quiet and regular to a panting gasp. He sucked at the air like it had suddenly become thick and was now almost too difficult to draw in.

It didn’t take long to lose consciousness. 

* * *

Aidan blinks, staring at nothing. Master had punished him for a variety of things, and they varied from severity, but every time it gave him a new scar to think about. 

And yet, all the Asnainians have done is hit him on the nose. That was for biting Frea, so he understands why it happened. He deserved it.

He deserves much more to happen now. She’s hurt. She’s hurt more than he’s ever seen a woman, and of course it’s his fault. 

But they haven’t  _ done  _ anything yet. Every time someone so much as moves he thinks he’s  _ finally  _ going to get what’s coming to him, but it never happens. The complete lack of a proper punishment utterly astounds him. It can’t be possible. Esme or someone else has to do something to him eventually. This isn’t like anything like before. He did something that had a very real consequence and  _ nothing’s happened. _

Everything’s been such an uncomfortable mess. He cried. A lot. So much he thinks he ran out of tears. Then the next thing he knew Esme was stuffing him in the back of a carriage with a solemn look on her face. 

_ <I’ll come later.> _ She had signed, slowly and awkwardly. 

And now he sits there, replaying the scene of her mangled legs over and over again. What can he do? He has to do something. He has to take responsibility somehow.

They won’t punish him. He considers asking Frea to hit him but after slapping his hands away he’s not sure how to approach that. The guilt felt like someone was twisting and pulling his guts.

He wanted to hurt. He  _ needed _ to hurt. The fact no one has even given a proper fucking scolding makes his skin crawl. Everything about this is unnatural. 

Somewhere, he sees Lauretta light a cigarette and he becomes hyper aware of her movements. He waits and waits and waits. She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t speak to him. Doesn’t put out her cigarette on his skin despite him wishing that she would. At least then it’d feel…  _ right.  _ Cathartic. He needs to be punished.

He sits there, anxious and hands clenching and unclenching. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits. All he does know is that at some point he smells something familiar. 

When he looks over at Lauretta again, she’s got a pot over a fire. From the smell, he assumes it’s another batch of hot chocolate. It makes him more antsy. 

This is… usually the time he brings Frea her drink. He has to fight the overwhelming feeling to grab a cup and go to her. 

Maybe he shouldn’t fight it. She told him to go away, but perhaps she needs a warm drink. What if she’s dehydrated? Or cold? Everyone likes a warm drink.

_ Not obeying her directly led to this situation. _

Yes, that’s true. But he went away from her, and now he wants to give her a drink. It’s… different. It’s a way to show he’s sorry, perhaps. To show he’s subservient to her like he’s supposed to be. And, if anything, hopefully it’ll lead to a proper punishment for what happened to Frea. The lack of any hits only serves to make him more anxious.

He swallows down his growing nervousness and approaches Lauretta. He does his usual pointing to indicate he wants a mug. 

Lauretta looks at him blankly, her smile that he’s grown used to seeing being nowhere in sight. She nods, and pours him some of the drink.

He takes in a deep breath before re-entering the tent.

* * *

He’s back inside, and Frea thinks she’s on the cusp of yelling again. 

But when she sees the steaming mug in his hands, her words die in her throat.

And she just realizes that she’s thirsty, so she wordlessly accepts the drink as she sits up. 

Then, silence, with Aidan awkwardly standing there and fiddling with his fingers, his eyes trained on the ground again. The hot chocolate is tasteless, further exacerbating how much she doesn’t want to be here.

The more she holds the cup, the more she thinks she  _ might  _ have been unfair to him. The… regret? Guilt? Anger? It eats at her like maggots are in her guts. She analyzes every action and word from every angle and wants to writhe in the agony of paths untaken. She frets about what others think of her. Continues to fret over it, continues to feel like there’s ants just beneath her skin the more she thinks about it.

She knows her flashes of anger and in an attempt to protect herself. In her mind, she retracts all the things she’s thought and said, but doesn’t actually do it. 

Instead, she tells him to sit. And it doesn’t take a single second before he’s kneeling in front of her.

She should make it up to him, somehow. Tell him something. Anything. The event seeps to the foreground of her mind and demands to be reexamined again. 

Her throat goes dry. She swallows thickly. What is she supposed to say? There was no way back. There was no way to make it right. The remorse would eat at her everyday of her life. From the corner of her eyes she sees the book of sign language that Lauretta brought to her. She envies the book, hard and lifeless, unable to feel the torments of life.

She clenches her jaw. She’s tormented from this, and Aidan just sits there.

Her voice screams at her in her mind. There’s a strange… glee to its tone.

_ His fault. _

_ His fault. _

_ His fault. His fault, his fault, his fault. _

_ Hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault— _

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, voice croaky, but the words are hard to get out. It physically pains her to even say it. A deep, dark and ugly part inside of her wants nothing more than to yell at him. To blame him. “It wasn’t your fault,” she repeats, moreso in an attempt to convince herself.

It doesn’t work.

_ “Aidan’s fine, too. He’s obviously stressed and he’s been crying for a while but physically he’s alright.”  _ Esme had said. Where does he get off by fucking crying about this? She’s the one who got her feet blown off, not him. What right does he have acting like a victim in this situation?

She thinks she’s going to pop a blood vessel with how she glares at him.

Why is her life ruined in a blink of an eye? Why her, of all people? Why had Acadia forsaken her? And all for a man who she doesn’t have any reason to keep anymore because her chance to write about him is gone?

There’s a fire in a veins now.

She grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him down with enough force he probably would have yelped if he could. Their foreheads touch, just barely, and she grits her teeth. Hate and enmity well up in her heart, fury itself burning her up.

Is this hatred? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know fucking anything anymore. Her body lost its strength the second it stepped on the bomb. Her mind shattered and the rest of her followed suit. Without whatever this emotion is, there wouldn’t be any part of her that feels anything else. Without it she’d be nothing, feel nothing, so why eat? Why sleep? Why continue to breathe? But this, this is the fuel that keeps her heart pumping and brain ticking over.

These difficult emotions are like furious sea waves, they whirl and toss in every direction. It’s not becoming of a High Noble, but her reputation and life is already ruined, so why bother continuing this farce? She doesn’t know how to deal with these feelings. She can’t bring herself to fucking care anymore, so instead of thinking about what she’s going to say, she lets her unbridled and untempered emotions take the lead.

_ Stupid fucking Utritian. _

_ I was a dullard to think one of them could ever be anything other than an ill-fated omen. _

Frea’s lips curl and her nostrils flare.

_ “You,” _ she practically spits out, watching his big green eyes become even wider, “You owe me a life debt.”

She can feel his thundering pulse, or is it her own? She can’t tell. 

She doesn’t care. 

“You will accompany me back to Asnain. You will be at my beck and call and you  _ will  _ do as you’re told. You will never disobey me again,” Whatever emotion she’s feeling burns in her heart so deep that it’s ingrained in the tissue. Aidan may not be able to speak, but the way the blood leaves his face tells her everything.

It almost makes her smile. 

_ Almost.  _

The grip on his shirt tightens, and her voice falters in her next words but she spits it out with the same amount of animosity as before. 

“Your life belongs to me now.”

He will serve her in payment for saving his life. It’s simple. Logical, even.

And yet, an unbearable heat unfurls in her lower stomach when she sees his lips quiver.

_ Perhaps my destiny is to be this man’s owner. Maybe that’s why Acadia led me to him. _

Hell, this man owes her _several_ life debts. She took him in, and he repays her kindness by doing something so unbelievably stupid that causes _her_ to become greviously injured? All she wanted was to take some fucking pictures. He should be groveling on the ground for her forgiveness and thanking her for her continuing mercy despite the fact he _doesn't fucking deserve any of it._

Feeling as though these swirling emotions are going to quickly overwhelm her, she grinds out her last word to the frightened man before her. 

"Leave," she commands, watching him scurry outside the tent like a mouse being chased by a famished cat. That, too, makes her feel warm.

She's feeling too much in far too little time. She wants to rip at her hair again. To scream. To cry. It makes her harshly swallow the bile that's quickly crawling up her throat. 

_ I hate him. I hate this. I hate myself. I hate this country. _

Frea curls into a ball and sobs. 

* * *

His head is spinning.

Aidan lays on his bedroll. It’s outside, with only Frea having a tent. It was full of a bunch of equipment, which he assumes is related to medic stuff because Lauretta keeps going in and out.

It feels weird. Unnatural. He lays there shivering—

Ah.

The Elder isn’t here to put the blanket on him. He had become so used to it that he had forgotten he should put the covers on himself tonight. It’s different.

But a great many things are different now. Everything has changed.

He thinks about what Frea said to him.

_ “Your life belongs to me now.”  _

He could see it in her eyes. Something snapped inside, snapped like brittle glass and he could feel the shards tearing at his guts.

And yet at the same time it feels as though something blooms inside of him. 

_ You can have an actual purpose again.  _

But - he  _ does  _ have a purpose. Master will come back. Eventually. He has to wait for her—

_ When will that be? _

He doesn’t know. The more time passes the more he wonders if she’ll ever be coming back to get him. Especially now that they’re traveling somewhere else, wherever that may be. But he does know one thing.

He  _ likes  _ Frea. The admission feels like a dirty secret, but it’s a truth that stabs at him. Even after everything, he wants to do things for her. It’s  _ precisely  _ because of everything he wants to serve her. 

To make things right.

He  _ does  _ owe her a life debt. He has to repay that. At least… until Master comes to pick him up. He’ll stay with her. 

All this happened because he didn't do what she told him. Because he  _ disobeyed.  _ That will never happen again. They may yet to actually punish him but Frea acting cold towards him pains him more than any punch or kick he’s experienced. It stings. Jabs. Gouges. Rips him apart from the inside. Why?

He knows why.

Esme, Lauretta and even Master look at him like he’s far away. Like he’s dirty. Like they don’t  _ really  _ want to speak to him. They’re uncomfortable about something. Only Frea has ever looked at him like he’s close, even when she hisses at him.

He stares at the fire before him with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth. He wrings his hands. 

He knows what he has to do. He has to serve her. To serve her daily drinks. To stay by her side. To clean her clothes. To dust her shelves. To learn as much of Asnainian as he can so he properly understands her. To  _ submit. _

To belong to Frea.

She was his Master now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you'd like, please consider dropping a comment. I wanna know if people still like this series lol.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I only decided on giving Lauretta an accent a while ago, so it's probably a bit inconsistent right now. Just imagine her with the typical southern drawl.

Something is wrong. Frea is shaking but the ground is still. What is that sound? Metal on metal. Scraping. Grating. It jangles her nerves. She thinks she might be on a dirt path yet her body feels upside down, tumbling, in pain… 

That daylight is gone. The heat is gone. The hard, sandy ground and dry wind is gone. Her limbs aren’t the same. Everything feels weaker. Pain radiates around her skull and there is instantly an odour she is not familiar with. It’s fucking disgusting. It makes her want to hurl. Her stomach contracts, and her throat immediately hurts.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Someone cooes above her, “We’re at the train station. We’re just movin’ you, relax, stop fightin’.”

Frea realizes her eyes had been closed the entire time. She blinks furiously, seeing Lauretta and other women she doesn’t recognize crowd around her, immediately making her feel horribly claustrophobic. She weakly protests when they put their hands underneath her to lift her body up, and she begins feebly hitting them with her fists and making incomprehensible noises.

She doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Her mind feels like nothing. It  _ is  _ nothing. 

There’s people saying things. There’s footsteps. There’s marching. There’s horses somewhere. Someone whistles on the platform. The siren of the train makes her body jolt, the sound going through the air like a butcher's cleaver on a carcass. Her heart jumps into her throat as her brain desperately registers the meaning of the jarring racket. 

There’s too much going on. She feels trapped, trapped,  _ trapped. _

The noises engulfed Frea, completely capturing her mind, rendering any logical thought or conclusion impossible. She flails her arms, scratching the people around her before trying to tear her hair out. Someone grabs her wrists. An uncomfortable wetness fills her eyes and tears stream down her face.

The last thing she sees is a glimpse of green eyes and blond hair.

* * *

Frea blinks. She blinks again.

The scenery is different. 

_ Very  _ different.

She’s on a bed now, she thinks. It’s infinitely more soft than whatever she was in the ambulance wagon. There’s got to be three pillows underneath her head, and when she cranes her head around she sees curtains that are a thick red velvet that hang in generous folds. In the large window, she sees she’s currently going through a mountain path. The rocks really do look like a camel hump, she absentmindedly thinks.

Looking around the train compartment, she sees the curtains on the sliding door leading to the corridor are closed, and she is indeed on a bed. On her right is three aside seating with fold up armrests and individual reading lamps. There’s dark walnut panelling and the seating is richly upholstered.

The thrum of the train wheels on the railway is like a rhythmic heartbeat.

It’s nothing like the chaos of the station. She doesn’t feel overwhelmed.

Quiet. Peaceful. Calm.

It makes her sigh. Her mind feels slower, and she definitely prefers this over the cacophony noise that felt like it was tearing her apart like the bomb. 

_ I’m going home. _

Frea frowns sharply.

She doesn’t think she’s ready for that.

The sliding door opens, the sound making her tense suddenly, but the sight of Lauretta makes her relax.

Though when Aidan walks in, she feels herself tense again.

“Heyo,” Lauretta says tiredly, “Glad to see you’re fine. I was trying to find a place for Aidan, but no one wants to sit with an Utritian so…” she yawns, “He’s stayin’ here. Sorry.”

Frea furrows her brows as Lauretta flops down on the seat, followed closely behind by Aidan who keeps his eyes trained to the ground as he fiddles with a piece of string in his hands. Lauretta runs a hand through her unkempt hair. Some of her shirt buttons are in the wrong holes. The dark circles under her eyes make her youthful face look so, so old. The way she slumps in her seat makes it seem like the energy in her is being constantly drained out.

The guilt eats at Frea.

She remembers scratching. She thinks she might have bitten someone, too. At some point, someone had given her pills to swallow and then she blacked out.

The guilt devours Frea.

She feels her muscles and chin tremble. She blinks several times to prevent a new onset of tears.

Most of all, she really wishes Aidan wasn’t here right now.

In an instant, Lauretta is kneeling by her side, pale and jaw clenched.

“C’mon, please, Frea,” she begs, exhaustion evident in her voice, “Do you… do you need more medication? Fuck, I mean, I’ll… I’ll, uh, get you somethin’ to eat. Or drink. Whatever you want.”

She wants to be left alone, but also not. She wants to push Lauretta away, but also grab onto her. She wants to scream, but also bite her tongue.

She feels like she’s losing her mind. Looking at Lauretta, looking at the sea of freckles on her face, she feels her mind become a surging perplexity. She thinks of ten things at once, and grasps onto a single thread of thought as an anchor, and without even realizing it, she blurts out her next words.

“Y-You know, in the past… freckles were once believed to be the disease of the poor…”

She blinks. For a fraction of a second, she thinks she sees Lauretta’s lips twitch upwards.

Why did she say that?

Lauretta huffs, “...Is that right? I think I read that somewhere when I was studyin’.” She pats Frea on the shoulder, though it is without any of the joviality when she usually does it. This one feels collegial. Stiff. “Tell me somethin’ else you know.”   
  


Ah. A distraction.

“You mentioned somethin’ about the Cult of Acadia when we first met,” Lauretta says, running a hand through her hair again, “Tell me more about that.”

Frea swallows thickly, feeling as exhausted as Lauretta looks. Her eyes quickly flick to where Aidan is sitting, and for a second their eyes meet, but he quickly averts his gaze. She licks her lips and looks back to Lauretta. 

“You… You usually ask about Utreau, so this is new.” She chokes out, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Figured Utreau is the last thing you wanna think about. I don’t know much about the Cult of Acadia, I mean, there were priestesses ‘n shit where I was from, but I was never brought up religious, y’know?”

Well, that much was already obvious. Frea sniffles, trying to think about what she’ll say.

She tries to think of the temples she adores. Of the fresco paintings depicting Acadia and her fiery red hair. “They’re priestesses and Arch Priestesses… They do sermons and travel the world to spread the Acadian faith… I-I don’t know what else to say.”

“So your mother is an Arch Priestess then? As well as a lawmaker?”

Frea shakes her head, “Ah, no. The Valentines have always worked alongside the Cult. Given them assistance when they need, even protecting them while also working with the Empress. We were once known as the Knights of Acadia, and had our own school of swordsmanship.” She smiles forlornly, “The advent of firearms have made that obsolete a long time ago, however.”

She wonders if she would have had any talent in swinging swords if her family were still knights. Would that have been something she could have succeeded in? They have another heirloom, a two-handed claymore with the image of a Great Asnainian Hound carved into the pommel. It hangs over the mantle of the fireplace now, rusted and useless.

_ Useless like you. _

She gnaws at her lower lip, and tries to think of anything else to prevent herself from crying like a fucking child again.

What else can she say? Nothing aloud to Lauretta. The Cult of Acadia they’re… they’re more than simple prophets. They’ve evolved to something else. They answer to her mother. They’re mother’s eyes and ears, telling her the going ons in and outside of the city.

She can’t really mention anything about it to Lauretta. That’s supposed to be a secret.

Honestly, she’s not really sure how it works either. Always figured her mother would tell her more about when she became Matriarch—

_ “He’s lying. Can you see that, Frea? Can you see how obvious it is?”  _ Her mother whispered in her ear, when she was still small enough to balance on her lap. It was a familial gathering, they were congratulating the son of one of their allied houses on getting engaged. The men laughed and drank tea in the garden, the Chiaya imported trees lined the perfect lawn in their wooden boxes. In the centre there was a pond as large as a small lake with flowering lily pads and a wooden bridge that crossed the middle. Frea and her mother were seated to the side, watching the men.

_ “Words cannot describe how I feel! To wed into the Selma family, ah it’s like a dream come true!”  _ The groom to be tittered, showing off his ring to the other men who admired the fat diamonds on his finger. He was going to be the third husband to the Selma Matriarch’s growing harem.

Her mother whispered to her again,  _ “See how his hands shake. How his body trembles. It is not excitement. Look at how his eyes keep flicking back to Miriam. See how her first and second husband both do the same.” _

He was afraid, Frea realized. They all were. A month later, she saw the man again, and he had a bruise on his face as he cowered behind his wife. The sight made her sad. Being kind to one’s men was surely the easiest of Acadia’s tenets to follow, and yet so many ignored it. Why? 

After that day, she began praying that Marcus and Nathaniel never married someone like Miriam Selma.

Another time, mother laid on the sofa like a languid cat basking in the sun. She lazily flipped through the pages of a book that had words too big for Frea to understand. Mother wasn’t reading the book anyway, her eyes went to one of the servants who was mourning over a dead dog in the middle of the room. 

_ “The Cult of Acadia will be your eyes and ears when you grow up, but you cannot rely solely on them,”  _ she said casually,  _ “You must be able to read people on your own. What do you see when you look at that servant?” _

Frea looked at her. She was crying. The servant had ran into her room saying the family puppy fell down the stairs and snapped its neck. Her body trembled with every breath, she rubbed her face into the fur of the dead animal, and kept looking back at her and mother.

Mother had been impassive when told the dog had died. She merely took a seat and watched the servants clean the body up, saying she’ll get Frea a new hound by the next morning. Frea, meanwhile, couldn’t hold back her tears.

_ “She… She’s sad?” _

Mother hummed, and Frea saw something in her eyes. Disappointment. She didn’t need a lesson to see that. 

The servant, along with some others, had picked up the body and were carting it away. Frea could hear her wails echoing in the halls.

_ “She’s lying. Acting. Everything was far too exaggerated. She had only been here for three days, and yet she pretends she had developed such a strong bond with our dog? She’s a perfidious woman.”  _ She leaned in, wiping the tears from Frea’s cheeks,  _ “Yesterday, she had screamed at the dog when it jumped at her. Today, she cries for it. She kept looking at us because she was afraid.” _

Frea blinked, unable to understand what her mother was saying.

_ “She killed Josie. Such a shame.” _

She had said with such nonchalance that Frea sniffled. Mother cupped her cheeks, staring at her with her dark, almost intimidating eyes. 

_ “The only time you can cry is when you’re lying, Frea. You cannot be so easy to read. A Valentine is always the reader.”  _ She said sternly, which caused a shiver to ride down Frea’s spine, _ “Negative emotions are an ugly thing discouraged by Acadia, but they have their uses. You have to know the time and place to be sad or angry.” _

Later that night, Frea peeked through the door of her bedroom, and she saw her mother dragging the servant away by her hair.

_ “Did you find anything about them, Frea?”  _ Mother asked another day, when Frea had come back home crying because her classmates teased her about her birthmarks again.

Frea shook her head fitfully,  _ “N-No… I d-didn’t find anything… I was t-too upset…” _

Mother hummed, and by now Frea knew it was a sign of her disappointment. Disappointment that her daughter didn’t have as strong a backbone as she hoped. Disappointment that her daughter is consistently read like an open book.

_ “Listen to what they say to each other. Watch how they move,”  _ mother said quietly as she wiped her tears and covered her birthmarks,  _ “Find their weakness, and then tear them apart. If you don’t control your pawns, you become one.” _

She stared at Frea for a long pregnant moment. Her face was like made of stone, stiff and unbreakable.

_ “Weak, powerless. A toothless hound that inspires ridicule instead of fear. Is that what you are, Frea? You must be strong, not tender-hearted, for the Empress and Acadia.” _

But Frea could never really achieve what her mother wanted. In the end, she faced teasing until she graduated, and no one really respected her. Or  _ feared _ her, like mother had hoped. Soon, it seemed mother saw her as a lost cause. She hummed more. She looked at her less. She seemed more reluctant to speak to her about the Cult and Valentine family business. She continually told Frea she was too young to participate in anything, even after she became an adult.

It made Frea pick up a camera for the first time.

_ I should take pictures of people, so I can study them later,  _ she had thought, but it soon divulged into an actual interest in photography. Then she convinced herself she could impress her mother in another way that didn’t involve reading people, that she could become an artist.

She convinced herself that her mother still considered her an heir.

—Frea inhales sharply. She thinks about when she first met Esme, of how she couldn’t read the woman for the life of her and made an utter fool of herself.

_ You’re still a toothless hound like when you were young.  _

_ A crippled hound. _

“My name is probably being stricken from every docent in the Valentine archives…” Frea whispers hoarsely, the image of her mother furiously scribbling out her name making a self-deprecating smile spread on her lips. 

She will become a withering husk. She’s sure of it.

Lauretta leans in and cups her cheek with a concerned look, “Huh? Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said. Are you okay?”

Frea nods, unwilling to continue this conversation. “I just… I just need some water.”

“...Okay, I’ll get some. Do you… do you mind if I take a smoke first? I’ll be right outside. Holler if you need anythin'.”

Lauretta looks at her with such a pleading look that Frea can’t help but nod again. It would be better if she’s gone for longer anyway, she muses, she can have her nicotine. 

The noise of the sliding corridor door signifies Lauretta leaving, and the thrum of the train is the only thing Frea hears again.

What a hopelessly awkward conversation.

It makes her want to laugh at how pathetic she is.

She rubs her now throbbing temples, willing herself to think of literally anything else other than how her legs are now stumps. She truly hadn’t thought it was possible to be more of a lost cause, but she keeps finding ways to surprise even herself.

_ What’s going to happen when I get back home? _

The pure, unmitigated dread that fills her makes her want to hurl. She cannot control herself as she trembles at every inch, her chest heaves upwards and downwards as she gapes in air. There’s thorns in her chest and at the same time it feels like her head is weighted down.

She turns her head towards Aidan, catching the look of fear in his eyes before he glances away. Damn, he’s really bad at not getting caught staring.

_ Ah. He’s really the only person I can read, I suppose. _

She watches his hands, how they tremble with the string. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Even with the collar, she can see his throat bob.

He really was the first person that she had ever inspired fear in. 

_ “Your life belongs to me now.” _

The same warmth that filled her when she said that comes back in full force. She doesn’t know how to interpret it, but she feels the overwhelming need to do…  _ something.  _ Anything. She had felt nothing but pure hatred and righteous fury when she declared those words to him but she feels something else now.

She wants… she wants—

Control.

“Stand,” she says, and Aidan’s shoulders jump before he does as she commands hastily. For a second, his stance is shaky, and he looks as though he’ll fall over.

Frea narrows her eyes, “Sit.”

He sits, though she doesn’t miss the bewilderment mixed in with his fearful eyes now.

Warm. She feels  _ so  _ warm.

“Stand,” she repeats, and he does just that, “Kneel next to me.”

When he does that, her throat begins to feel even drier. He doesn’t look at her, his golden hair falls over his eyes and she thinks about how jealous the girls who teased her would be if they knew a man who is  _ this  _ pretty is her’s now.

She reaches out, her hand grazing his neck, and she feels him flinch. In her mind, she briefly imagines strangling him, and watching the life leave his eyes. The sudden thought makes her hand jerk back. She swallows thickly, trying to bite down her growing hate for this man. She can’t kill him. He has a life debt that she fully intends on making him pay back.

Her hand goes back to his neck, over his collar. She tries to keep her face impassive, though she isn’t entirely sure if she’s successful.

“This is…” she swallows again, “...unsightly. Remove it.”

It’s a leather collar, and Frea thinks it might have been something for a large dog. Aidan fumbles around it, his fingers slipping as it’s clear he’s had this thing on him for a while and never had the need to remove it himself. When he does finally get it off, he presents it to her like it’s a crown.

She slaps it out of his hands. A noise comes out of him, and she thinks that if he could properly vocalize at all, it would probably have been a yelp.

She gnaws her lip, breathing heavily as she looks around the train compartment. Their luggage is here, and she’s just going to assume he knows what’s in them.

“Get me the book about sign language.”

His eyes widen in confusion, and when she knits her brows he scrambles to look through one of the many bags. The fact her merely moving her eyebrows inspires  _ that  _ much action makes her want to dreamily sigh. Was this something mother had felt daily? 

Frea leans back on her pillows as she steadies her breathing and rearranges her thoughts. 

Her life may be falling apart around her, but Aidan feels something like an anchor now. He gives her one thing, and it’s something she keeps repeating it in her mind giddily.

_ Control, control, control. _

* * *

_ “You’ve broken a window and threatened a client! What the fuck were you thinking?!” _

Aidan stood at the doorway, watching his father trying to placate a man who was furiously jabbing at his fingers towards one of the newer prostitutes. A younger man with tousled brown hair and dead eyes, he still had a shard of glass in his hand. He had gripped it hard enough that rivulets of blood were dripping from his fingers.

Father moved his hands upwards, as if trying to calm a raging bull, as thin blond hair moved over skin that yearned for more shade and rest. “ _ C-Come on… Yelling won’t help anything—” _

_ “Be quiet, Dorian! He threatened a general, a fucking general! Do you know what this means?”  _ The other man yelled, instantly silencing father. His booming voice seemed to shake the walls, it made Aidan want to hide his face under a pillow, but he stayed at the doorway.

_ “She’s going to come back. You’ve insulted her. She’s— She’s going to bring her fucking soldiers!”  _ His voice cracked, then he screamed again, clutching his hair in his hands as he wailed. His fuse simmered and fizzed like a firework, then he exploded with unrestrained fury.  _ “This is all your fault! We might fucking die because of you!” _

The man with the glass in his hands remained as still as a cadaver, unblinking at the continuing onslaught. He smiled, but he always smiled. It was like that of a broken doll. Cracked. Fragmented.

Then, without the slightest bit of hesitation—

He slit his own throat.

Blood spurted out. His body staggered. Both men stood frozen, as blood gushed with sickening determination from the man’s neck. The floor had been a blank canvas before being painted a deep, dark red. The man slid against the floor. His body twitched and his half-opened eyes were clouded.

He was still smiling.

Watching the man ebb away, his eyes growing steadily more dull, Aidan felt as if his own throat was torn. He hiccuped, and father turned to face him, his face as pale as the man who just died in front of them. 

_ “A-Aidan,” _ he squeaked,  _ “You… I—”  _ he looked between Aidan and the bloodied man. The one who had been yelling earlier is deathly quiet, just staring at the pooling blood.  _ “—You have to hide. Some… Some bad people are going to come.” _

It happened in a blur. The next thing he knew was that his father grabbed his arm, pulled him with such force he thought his shoulder was going to pop out. He was shoved in a closet, and before father closed it, he whispered.  _ “No matter what you hear, don’t come out. Don’t come out until I tell you to. O-Okay?”  _

His voice was wobbly. His eyes were shimmering with tears. 

Aidan just nodded his head.

He stayed in the closet for a long time. He heard doors being kicked open. Furious steps across the wooden floors. Yelling. Once, he was sure he heard father whimper, and the voice of a woman taunting him.

_ “One of you whores made Malvina look like a damn fool.”  _ There was a crack, and father croaked out a wet noise,  _ “I never liked her much, but well, you know we can’t really let that slide. Heh.” _

There was a clatter and clang of things being thrown and pushed around the room. Someone definitely flipped a table. There was a crash of a body hitting the ground, and two bodies were tumbling about. It was a noise he was intimately familiar with.

It was horrible. Especially the gleeful growling from the woman. __

She was fucking father.

Try as he might, father hissed and whined, and Aidan could hear father scraping at the floorboards.

It made Aidan want to hurl. It made him want to scream and cry. It made him want to try to push the woman off father. 

His hands trembled and his eyes watered as he reached his hand towards his ears. He pressed down in an effort to block out further noise. His bit his lip so hard it bled, and brought his knees to his chest.

It felt like he was in that closet for days.

When father opened the closet, one of his eyes was swollen shut. Blood seeped out of his nostrils, and his arm hung limply by his side.

Despite that, he still smiled at Aidan, saying everything was okay now, and that the women left.

His smile looked eerily similar to the man who slit his throat.

* * *

Aidan watches the scenery pass by him at startling speed. He had never seen things move this fast before. This… thing didn’t need horses. That surprised him. How did it move? How could something this big move so fast?

When he first saw it, it frightened him. Especially when it made the ear-piercing screech, it almost made him cry. He saw the smoke fly out of what he thought was a chimney. But when he had moved inside, everything seemed… calmer. People looked at him funny, and he didn’t like that, but at least now he can sit by the window and watch the mountains move past him.

He glances at Fre—Master. She’s got his back turned to him, laying in the bed. He can see she’s looking at the book she got him. Sometimes, he can see her hands move.

His hand goes to his throat. The skin feels weird without the touch and weight of the collar. How long had he worn that? Years? And it came off in seconds? It doesn’t feel right. He wonders if Master will give him a new collar when they reach their destination.

She had ordered him. As bizarre as her commands were, it gave him a sense of peace. He obeyed her and succeeded. It felt right. While he still feels like he’s walking on a thin line, he hopes he can continue to please her.

His mind flickers to her smile. It happened briefly when he was taking off his collar.

It was like a broken doll.

He didn’t like it. He doesn’t like it when Master reminds him of the men in the brothel. It was unnatural. She shouldn’t be like that. She should be stern, frightening, unrelentless. Any smile she gives him should make him cower and beg. She should be a rabid, snarling thing, with him limp in her teeth.

Because that’s just how women are. 

But maybe she’s new to this, certainly seems like that because of how she and everyone else has been treating him so far. They’ll learn eventually. And he’ll be prepared for it. He’ll obey.

What will his first punishment be like? He’s definitely earned several of those. Will she punish him when they stop moving?

The thought makes him look back outside with a shiver.

The sky is golden, and so is the grass, with specks of green that are sporadic and sparse. There is an odd lonely tree here and there too. He presses his face against the window in an attempt to see the tops of the mountains, and he can just barely see the peaks. 

It’s strange. Back at the manor, there were holes in the ground everywhere. Uprooted trees. The walls of the building were falling apart. 

But here, the ground seems untouched. There’s no evidence anything that happened at the manor happened here. How strange. He thought the world was ending, but in reality it seems like it was only a small part of the earth that was crumbling. 

Where are they going? He doesn’t know. What’s going to happen to him? He doesn’t know. 

Aidan wonders if Master will ever be able to smile like a… master. He hopes she can, because he knows he’s at fault for her looking like a broken doll. The fact stabs at him like glass. How will she live without feet? He doesn’t know that either. His hand clenches around the string he’s holding. He needs to be punished. When will he punish him? He doesn’t know. That one frustrates him the most.

But he does know he’ll continue to obey.

He hopes that whatever happens, part of him selfishly hopes the ride takes a while. 

He likes it in this moving room.

* * *

“...You really needn’t assist me with this…” Frea croaks out. An uncomfortable, spindly feeling travels up and down her spine, and her head feels heavy with a blanket of humiliation.

The toilet.

Gritting her teeth, she stares at it like it personally offends her, flexing her fingers as she tries to figure out how she’s going to go about her business. Luckily, her train compartment has it’s own bathroom so she doesn’t have to awkwardly hobble around down the hall to get to the latrine. It’s the one silver lining out of this constant nightmare.

It still feels embarrassing, like it’s a dirty secret she should hide away.

Lauretta gives her a tired, wry smile. “C’mon, at least lemme put you on the thing, then I’ll leave. It’s no biggie. Trust me, I’ll be much harder by yourself. Save yourself the trouble, alright?”

Despite hating literally anything to do with this, Frea finds she can’t really argue. The mere fact she needs help getting on the toilet makes her want to vomit. She fumbles with Lauretta’s arms, her mind already clamouring about awful everything is. To think that going to the fucking bathroom would become a constant reminder of her loss of independence, it sickens her like nothing else.

Before her body moves an inch she feels her jaw clench in anticipation and already she is resigned to the discomfort to follow. Lauretta practically has to pick her up under the armpits like she’s some type of child, and after some trial and error she manages to sit on the toilet seat.

She can feel her face burn with humiliation.

It must be because of how utterly miserable she no doubts looks, but Lauretta keeps her strained smile on. “Alrighty. I’ll leave you to it. Holler if you need anything,” then she leaves, but not without giving her what Frea can only assume is supposed a reassuring wink before she closes the door. 

There’s a dull phantom pain swimming around her legs. It’s not prickly or white hot, rather it feels like someone only applying enough pressure to be an annoyance. Somehow, that frustrates her the most.

She shimmies out of her pants. Even after she’s finished she sits there, prone. How many more things she never really thought about are going to become an encumbrance? 

Will she ever be truly independent? Suddenly every task, no matter how small or big, just feels utterly pointless. The world outside teases her with its calmness; everyone and everything is just…  _ fine.  _ Normal. It makes her head ring.

After putting her pant back on and awkwardly reaching behind herself to flush, she then begins to amble herself onto the chair. She grabs onto the armrests, and with a concerted effort she attempts to lifts herself to sit on the cushioned seat. The chair immediately begins moving backwards because of her weight, and Frea sits back down on the toilet, almost certain that she will fall if she tries to do this by herself.

“Pathetic.”

She blinks, then blinks again. That— was her voice, no doubt about it, but she doesn’t even think she moved her mouth…?

She turns her head to look at the bathroom mirror. She sees herself. Same face, same eyes, same birthmarks, same everything.

And yet—

Frea does not recognize the person in the mirror.

In an instant the…  _ other  _ Frea curls her lips upwards into a grin, and the temperature in the room drops. It’s an alienating imitation of a smile that glows in a perverse eagerness. Her eyes are unmoving, and she presses her hands and face against the glass; lips beginning to move, beginning to say something else—

Frea blinks.

Her reflection is back to normal.

She stares at it for a long while.

“Hey, you good?” Lauretta’s muffled voice comes from the door, and there’s a knock. “Thought I heard the toilet flushin’ but it’s been a while now. You need help?”

At that moment, Frea realizes she hasn’t been breathing the entire time when… whatever that was occurred. She heaves a ragged breath before running a hand through her hair, lips trembling.

_ I am… tired… _

She calls out to Lauretta to help her on the chair.

* * *

“Man, this compartment is fuckin' fancy. A toilet, two bunk beds, and room service? So this is what it feels like to be a noble, eh?” Lauretta says first thing in the morning, scoffing eggs down her throat.

Frea supposes Lauretta is feeling comfortable enough to speak to her normally now, for the most part. She remembers how she wailed and screamed at her, and whenever Lauretta has to do anything remotely close to her legs she has to bite down on her tongue and blink furiously to prevent herself from crying. 

When Lauretta isn’t being a medic, Frea feels as though she can speak to her. Sometimes she has too much bite in her tone, and sometimes she abruptly ends the conversation. Most conversations are awkward, but Frea doesn’t know what to do with that. To keep what’s left of her sanity, she has to try her damndest not to think of her current physical state, what occurred in the latrine. Every thought that’s dedicated to thinking about her legs makes her mind feel more frail and detached.

She picks at her eggs with her fork. Aidan stays seated, watching the outdoors. He hasn’t eaten anything off his plate.

“If two bunk beds and a toilet makes you feel like a noble, I have to wonder how you lived before now.” Frea says, and Lauretta barks out a laugh.

“I meant on the train! I've been on plenty of trains, but I never had my own room! Always just a seat, cramped up space and touchin’ other people’s elbows. It’s always so stuffy. Yuck.”

Frea doesn’t respond. She doesn’t really know what she’s supposed to say about that. Regardless, Lauretta keeps talking, her eyes still haggard but with a tinge of excitement in them.

“I wonder if we’ll have something like that with a carriage, y’know? Just… smaller trains. What do you think is gonna happen to horses when steam engines take their job?”

“Eaten, I suppose.” Frea mutters softly.

Lauretta makes a small noise, something between a huff and snort, “I can just see the protests now. People are gonna be pissed if horses start getting culled. Y’know, speakin’ of food,” she smiles, “I’m so fuckin’ glad I don’t need to eat army food anymore. That shit sucked.”

Frea tries to smile back at her, but she can see Lauretta’s lips twitch downwards at the attempt, so she keeps her gaze on her eggs. 

“Army food will be replaced with hospital food.”

There’s a pregnant pause, every second more uncomfortable than the last. Neither of them have discussed what’s going to occur when they reach a hospital, and it’s not something Frea wants to think about, so she changes the subject. “Aidan, eat your food.”

He almost drops the plate when she switches to Utritian, and he keeps his eyes on the ground when he almost hesitantly brings the fork to his mouth.

She sees his eyes widen for a second. He keeps the food in his mouth for unusually long, and swallows.

Honestly, had he never eaten eggs before? It’s just…  _ eggs.  _

Somehow, she feels annoyance bubble up inside of her, and she looks away.  _ He ruined you,  _ a voice in her mind spits out,  _ he’s an ulcerous little vermin.  _ Her hands clutch on the bed sheets. 

Her mind flashes back to the hard ground, her legs in tatters, her camera destroyed and head ringing. She can see every detail and feel every feeling. Phantom pain sears through her thighs to her stumps better than a branding iron, hrer mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a single thought to completion. There's nausea too, just enough to make her hold tighter on the sheets for support and breathe slow. 

_  
_ _ “Be kind to your men—” _

_ His fault. _

_ He doesn’t deserve kindness. _

“Aidan,” she growls, “That’s enough. That’s all you’re allowed to eat.”

He immediately stops, dropping the fork on the plate. She watches his throat as he swallows and he slowly turns back to the window. The more she looks at him, the more her lips curl. The only reason she had ordered him to take off his collar is because it belonged to his previous master.

Truthfully, she wants to give him another one.

She wants more control.

Disgust. She’s sure that’s the only thing that she feels for him, and what makes her feel unbearably warm. It owns her, dominates every thought, controls every action.

Frea returns to slowly eating her food.

Lauretta warily looks between her and Aidan. “Um… Can I ask what you said to him?”

“...I merely told him he can eat. It seems he’s full for now.”

Lauretta nods, continuing to look at Aidan and his plate with a worried gaze. Eventually, she sighs.

“Guess I’ll be goin’ out for a smoke for a bit, then I’ll take the plates back to the kitchen.” She says tiredly, and Frea immediately feels herself calming down at the change of pace. She lifts a single questioning brow.

“What does your brother think of your habit of smoking so early in the morning?” She asks, and Lauretta chuffs. 

“Oh, he hates it. Keeps tellin’ me I should quit, but I can’t help it,” she lazily smirks, “The one in the mornin' is special. Feels like it’s unifyin’ my soul, y’know? Like I’m lightin’ an incense stick. And hey, my brother drinks twenty cups of sweet tea a day. We’ve all got our addictions, heh. Mine just happens to be cigs and men.”

She spares Aidan one last glance, looking at his plate. She probably hopes he’ll eat more while she’s out.

Frea won’t allow that. 

When Lauretta slips out to the corridor, Frea cranes her neck to look out the window.

Feeble rays struggle to shine through the broken layer of cloud. On each peak was a fortress overlooking the valley below, each one no more than a barely discernible silhouette against the inky sky. These are old mining buildings that had been repurposed as forts for the war, and now they’re all abandoned. She can see white on the very top of the mountains now.

Snow.

It means they’re close to Asnain. They’re passing through the Loucrier Slopes.

The thought petrifies her. Not only are they close to Asnain, they’re barreling towards her home city of Lullin. It’s nestled between the Loucrier Slopes and another mountain range called the Canterburg Highlands, and is one of the biggest trade hubs in Asnain. 

They’re so close.

Frea can hear her mother’s humming echoing in her mind, and the phantom pain in her legs flares up again.

She quickly lays back down, burying her face in her book. She refuses to speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. It'll get worse before it gets better. :^)
> 
> As usual, please consider leaving a comment if you'd like. It really helps with my motivation. \o/


	8. Chapter 8

Frea remembers the first time she was brought to the cathedral in the middle of Lullin. On that day it was freezing, the middle of winter. She felt the weak light only winter's sun could give, and the rain from last night made everything glow with a really slippery ice. 

The cathedral spire brought her eyes heavenward. It was a work of art that looked beautiful in every season, but in the low light of the morning and the snow, the stones were a light bluish hue. It looked like it could have been an ice fortress. Lullin’s cathedral was the highest landmark in the city, the immediate surroundings featured an unworldly serenity, quite the juxtaposition with the bustling and metropolitan splendor of the marketplace only a few blocks away. With it’s awe-inspiring profile and elegant interior, many travel across the world just to see this holy building and its majesty.

She was visiting so that she and mother could view the remains of the first Valentine Matriarch that wax interred inside a private room of the cathedral. When they arrived, they were the only ones in the building. It was closed to tourists just for them. Even as an eleven year old, the fact that the city’s oldest and most popular attraction was closed solely for _her_ filled her to brim with overflowing self-importance. 

She gleefully ran around the gigantic domed room, hearing her footsteps echo, and running past the many shrines present. There was not a speck on the wall or ceiling that wasn’t painted with a scene. They displayed the tenets she was learning.

One wall held a scene of a woman with a giant crown, with her adoring subjects kneeling and bowing. This clearly shows the first tenet, _“Serve and obey your Empress.”_ Worship of Acadia and the Empress naturally go hand in hand.

Next is an image of an Arch Priestess reading a scroll while surrounded with books and novices. _“Study the Holy Scriptures, and heed the commands of the Arch Priestesses and nobles,”_ is this tenet. Acadia is a woman who favours hierarchy and order. It comes as no surprise that she demands her faithful complies with the orders of those who speak for her.

Multiple walls depict other deities. _“Worship the Other Holies.”_ Acadia isn’t selfish or jealous. She happily welcomes and expects tributes to her fellow divines.

_“Create,”_ is the next tenet, shown through a stained glass image of a woman carving something with wood, and another depicts childbirth. Acadia encourages all artforms, with birth being considered the greatest and most sacred art of them all. As technology progresses, inventors quickly became among the most wealthy and coveted individuals in society.

Further in the back of the cathedral, and slightly hidden, is a fresco showing a man on his knees, and his cheeks cupped by a woman standing over him. He looks at her reverently. _“Be kind to your men,”_ an easy tenet, Frea thought. Men have their own commands to follow, though they’re not depicted in any paintings on the cathedral walls, and Frea obviously never learned them. But she couldn’t imagine they’re anything too difficult to understand. Men are simple, therefore their tenets must be simple.

Above all these paintings is the image of Acadia on the ceiling. Most Empresses don’t have natural red hair, so they dye them in respect of the goddess.

Frea stood in a secret room that was behind a pillar. Inside, she could only stare, slack-jawed.

The room was covered in diamonds and jewels, all polished to shine. Everywhere she looked she saw something new, the gleams of the rubies, emeralds, and pearls almost threatened to blind her when they reflected off the light of the chandelier.

It was a room worthy to hold the remains of her deified ancestor. The coffin and shrine in the middle were carved marble, and the vibrancy of the ornate jewels and golds continued to leave young Frea speechless.

Rosalinde Valentine. A woman who had lived centuries ago, and cemented the Valentine name in history when she assassinated the leader of anti-Acadian dissidents who had threatened to overtake Asnain with their radical reforms. She guaranteed a future for the monarchy through the assassination. With that, she created the Cult of Acadia, and a dynasty of women who adhered to absolute loyalty to the Empress.

Frea swallowed. _I’m part of this dynasty,_ she thought. She drowned in the feeling of duty, but it elicited a sense of nervousness she could never quite get rid of.

_“Empress Euphrasia is the living, breathing heart of Asnain as the descendant of the Holy Mother Acadia,”_ mother said as she lightly combed through Frea’s hair with her fingers. She kept her steely gaze at the shrine in front of her and Frea nodded instinctively to her words, _“Our fortune and prosperity depend upon her. She has many enemies, Frea, and it is our duty to…”_

Her voice drifted off, and Frea looked up at her. Mother’s eyes kept looking forward, and it felt like she was speaking to herself rather than to her daughter.

_“Eliminate them.”_

* * *

Frea tenses her jaw as Lauretta moves her legs. The medic had re-bandaged her, and Frea covered her face with her arms, refusing to even catch a glimpse of what’s left of her limbs. Now, Lauretta bends her legs and moves them to _‘keep the blood pumping,’_ as she said. Sometimes Frea does air punches and sit ups to have some exercise, but also to keep some semblance of sanity after being bed-ridden on this train for two days.

She doesn’t want to think about how awkward going to the bathroom is. It’s a horrible feeling, but she hasn’t seen that strange apparition in the mirror since the first time. 

She doesn’t want to think about how she hasn’t gotten a good night’s rest since the accident. She’s always awakened with a feeling of despair that feels like it’s drowning her, like she’s being sucked into a deep, dark void that’s endless.

_And_ she doesn’t want to think about how she’ll never have the chance to run around Lullin cathedral ever again, that building had become her home away from home and the thought of being unable to truly appreciate it after this… destroys her.

Frea thinks about all three of those things for several minutes.

She rubs her temples, trying to think about anything that doesn’t remind her that she’s a fucking cripple. Try as she might, her mind goes back to when she first visited Rosalinde’s eternal resting place.

_Eliminate the Empress’ enemies,_ huh. And how did she think she could achieve that? Join the war when it is over, and as a photographer at that? What was she thinking? Was she that intent on running away from what mother _actually_ expects of her that she waltzed over the border with barely a proper plan? And then grab onto the first man she comes across? She’s such a backwards thinking dullard. The only reason mother allowed her to play soldier was because she thought she could get something useful from being a translator. When Frea mentioned she had intentions to take pictures, she hummed and changed the subject.

“You’re looking mighty upset there,” Lauretta comments, taking Frea out of her thoughts, “Am I hurtin’ you? You need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

Frea exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and keeps her blank gaze on nothing. “I am… nervous about reaching Lullin.”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t blame ya for that; but hey, you’ll be seein’ your family again,” Lauretta says with a reassuring grin, “That’s gotta be somethin’ right? I’d kill to see mine. I haven’t seen them for months. But I’ve also never seen Lullin either, so I’m hopin’ a little vacation makes up for that, heh.”

Frea is sure Lauretta makes an adequate enough medic, but as someone trying to do small-talk? She must be as bad at reading people as she is.

She doesn’t _want_ to think of Lullin or her family. She doesn’t want to talk about it, either. Festering dread renders her mind ineffective, the spiteful and nagging voice in the back of her mind speaks of nothing but doom ahead.

“Tell me about where you’re from,” Frea says, trying to keep her voice steady and not as desperate as she thinks she sounds.

Lauretta stops moving her legs for a fraction of a second, and she smiles warmly. “I lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere. The sheep outnumber the people. It was tough, considerin’ Northern Asnainian weather doesn’t exactly jive nicely with crops. I started learnin’ how to take care of people after meeting my bro’s wife. She always gets herself hurt as a merc.”

She continues talking, but Frea doesn’t really hear it. Lauretta’s voice just becomes a muffled noise, and Frea focuses on the top of her bunk bed. Her mind becomes blank, her gaze unsteady.

She doesn’t need to look outside to know how close she is to Lullin, to mother. 

* * *

Aidan has yet to eat a full meal. Master hasn’t allowed him to. It’s alright, though, he deserves that much. He can deal with it. The last thing he was allowed was a glass of water.

Sometimes Lauretta brings food to his mouth with her fork, but he always denies it. He’s not sure why she does that, and now the woman has left the room, and Master sleeps on her bed. 

The ride has been nice. He likes seeing the outside change. Sometimes he sees buildings and flat ground now. And whiteness. _Snow._

Father had told him of snow, he said it was cold to touch and something he saw often in his home, but Aidan had never actually seen any before. 

_“The chill crisp air is great. Sometimes I’d have snowball fights with other boys, ah, it wasn’t that sort of fight. It was a good fight, just playing.”_ He said with a nostalgic smile on his face, before his expression became someone more morose, _“I… really miss it. But that’s in the past. There’s no point thinking about it. Come, I have to wash you up before I receive my next client.”_

Aidan frowns and touches the cool glass of the window, trying to see more of the brief specks of white but the speed of this special carriage makes them look like a blur. Father seldom talked about his home. Aidan just assumed the brothel was home and that was that.

_Where… did he live before the brothel?_

He just continues staring, staring and twisting the copper string around his fingers. Every time he thinks of father there’s an oppressive heaviness in his limbs and mind. Every memory of his rare, genuine smiles only causes a deepening of the pain. There is a familiar numbness, and the hurt of losing him would hit him at random moments. 

_I want to see him again._

His whole body hangs limp like each limb weighs twice as much as it had before and just moving it about is a slow, painful effort. He slumps in his seat, reminding himself that he’s living for someone else now.

“Aidan.”

His shoulders stiffen, and he briefly meets Master’s eyes before looking back down. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to look at her head on yet, so he doesn’t. She’s sitting up now, with the book on her lap.

“Do you know where you’re going?” She asks, and something about her tone makes him cower.

He thinks about that night she claimed ownership over him.

_“You will accompany me back to Asnain.”_ She had said. So, he’s going to Asnain, and he nods. He wonders why she asked him that.

“No,” she says, and the very word makes his heart skip a beat. He fucked up. He answered wrong. His throat immediately constricts, his mind thinking about every time he’s ever been hit in his life.

Master’s voice brings him back to the present.

“Use your hands.” She says, and he blinks owlishly as he unconsciously looks at her face. Her brows are knitted in what he assumes is annoyance and he looks back down.

“I’m trying to learn sign language. So use your hands whenever you answer me now, Aidan. That’s an order.”

He nods, before realizing he’s a fucking _idiot_ who doesn’t know how to follow orders properly. He swallows thickly, and moves his hands.

_ <Yes.> _

There’s a brief pause, and Master repeats her initial question.

_ <I am accompanying you back to Asnain.> _

Another pause, longer than before, and he thinks he should maybe move his hands slower next time.

“...Where did you live before your previous Master?” She sounds as unsure as he feels. Is there really nothing else she can ask him about to practice signing? 

Perhaps she’s making sure he isn’t too… used for her. Women don’t like used men, he’s heard that being said in the brothel before, which confused him. He never quite could understand what that meant.

_ <I lived in a brothel.> _He signs slowly, though the clients always called it a whore house. Maybe he should have called it that instead.

“Do you have a last name?”

He _thinks_ he knows what a last name is, father might have mentioned what it is before, but he never really understood the point of it. He doesn’t understand a lot of things.

_ <No.> _

Her next question makes his throat drier than before. 

“Do you have any family? Where are they?”

His fingers tremble as images of father rapidly pass through his mind. Every memory hits him like a galloping horse, and he thinks the air is ripped from his lungs. He takes a deep breath and he feels his jaw clench.

_ <No.> _Father is dead. He has to be. It’s been too long.

“Don’t lie to me, Aidan.”

He looks back up at Master with a pleading look. Now it definitely feels like the air is being punched out of him, and he takes a shaky breath. What was he supposed to say? He doesn’t have any family anymore. He doesn’t think he does. Is it one of those moments where Master says something that’s wrong regardless of his answer? Is she playing with him? 

_“I’ll… I’ll always be with you,”_ father said shortly after he was told Aidan had been sold. Fat tears welled up in his eyes and his irises were threaded scarlet. He gently touched Aidan’s chest, _“I-In here… I’ll be right there.”_

A raw emptiness nibbles at his insides like a hungry rat. He hates this. He hates Master’s questioning. He hates thinking about father. He hates how heavy his eyes feel. How heavy _everything_ feels. It’s a crushing weight that threatens to swallow him whole.

He remembers he shouldn’t be looking at her, and looks away, but not before he sees her frowning sharply. 

“What the hell is wro—” She gasps suddenly as there’s a loud _screech_ of… something. They move slower, and slower, and slower until coming to a stop. Aidan stills at the sudden change, eyes going back to Master only to see her eyes blown wide and her breathing has become erratic. 

“Lullin.” Is all she says.

* * *

If one is lucky, they may catch a glimpse of the Empress waving to her loyal subjects from the balcony of Lullin’s cathedral when she visits the city during the winter months. The city’s inhabitants enjoy a reputation of being well-read and cultured, as well as conservative and pious. Travelers from across the globe come to take advantage of Lullin’s markets, filled with curiosities and baubles from across the world. Now that the war is over, many bodacious sellers show off trinkets pilfered from Utreau. 

Others come to dine at the many fine eateries, or to skate when the lake is frozen over. Further west is the ocean, and if one is intrepid enough, they can attempt to swim in it. While Lullin is rife with many luxurious accommodations for noble families, there are some inns that cater to those with a smaller purse. 

Ultimately, there is no more desirable travel destination for individuals of all social classes than Lullin. Accashire may be the Imperial capital of Asnain, but Lullin is the city that brings in the most trade and wealth.

It’s cosmopolitan. It’s urban. It’s cultural.

It’s Frea’s home city. Her family practically owns it.

She wants nothing to do with it.

Not now. She can’t even bear to look at it. Every building feels like it’s mocking her somehow, and the bustling movement of everyone gleefully exiting the train, greeting each other and welcoming their soldiers back home makes her want to vomit.

On the walls are posters strewn about, most depict an Asnainian soldier tearing apart the Utritian flag with big bold words declaring, _‘GLORY TO ASNAIN.’_ Others have Acadia overseeing various soldiers with the words, _‘GLORY TO ACADIA.’_

She hides her face under a blanket that was meant for her legs as Lauretta pushes the wheelchair she sits on. She wears the blanket like it’s a hood, and when she turns to see behind her she can see Lauretta also has her hand on Aidan’s wrist, the young man turns his head in every direction as he takes in his sudden and new surroundings with wide eyes. It seems to overwhelm him, and he flinches and shields his face with his free hand when firecrackers go off.

Even with one hand on the chair and the other on Aidan’s wrist, Lauretta has a surprising amount of coordination.

This— This isn’t how she wanted to come home. She wanted to be able to join the chorus of cheers and festivities. She wanted to be subject to everyone's adoration. The mere sight of Lullin’s ornate buildings and rolling mountains should have been the salve to her troubled and wearied mind.

Instead, it makes her further hide away as Lauretta wheels her off in some secret passageway where they take the injured soldiers. Frea had already accepted she was a failure, and everyone must surely know of her idiocy, but she still finds herself with a burning need to disappear. She doesn’t want anyone to look at her.

It makes her hyperventilate.

No one hears her over the cheers, and they soon board an ambulance wagon, and Frea hears the thunderous hoovesteps of the horses as they run. 

Lauretta tries to pry the blanket off of her. “Hey, Frey-Frey, there’s no one here except us. You can take that off—”

“Don’t call me that!” 

The scream tears through her like a great shard of glass. Frea feels her eyes widen and pulse quicken, her heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box. It’s too much, being home, being called something so familial. Everything feels wrong. Everything feels like insects crawling beneath her skin.

She fucking hates it, but anger is dwarfed by all her other overwhelming emotions. Her scream was one of hysteria, bordering on sheer terror. 

She'd give anything to go back to the ennui of the carriage when she was traveling to the Utritian manor for the first time. Anything over this.

Her fingers curl on the blanket, desperately using it as a shield against the inevitability of seeing her family again.

* * *

Frea realizes she’s never actually been in a hospital before. Whenever she had been injured or sick mother always brought a doctor to their estate.

She also realizes she doesn’t like being in a hospital in the slightest. The floor is slate grey and the walls dove. Honestly, she finds it abrasive, enough to bring on one of her migraines. There are commercial prints on the wall and they’re cheap and insipid, so lacking in vibrancy that they appear sun-bleached in this windowless strip.

What she hates the most is how cramped it is. When she occasionally peeks out of her blanket, she is almost overwhelmed by the amount of patients on trolleys, some tended by strained relatives and some alone. She can see their green uniforms, most of these women are soldiers as unfortunate as she is. The confined space magnifies the groans and wails to no avail, the nurses have clearly seen it all before and are immune, none of them react to the injured patients, no doubt hardened by repeat exposure and over-work.

Frea hates it here. 

They finally reach a door, brown and dull like all the others. 

“Well, here we are,” she hears Lauretta say, the familiar tiredness evident in her voice. “We’re alone, too. So please just… relax, Frea.” Her voice tapers off in a haggard sigh. 

Frea slowly begins taking her blanket off, but decides against it. A terribly self-conscious part of her instinctively wants to continue hiding her face and her birthmarks. When she glances around, the room is as devoid of beauty as she expected. The room as an undertone of bleach and the floor is simply grey. There is no decoration at all save for the limp curtain that separates the beds.

She’s heard people usually bring flowers to a hospital. She understands why now.

She takes a peek behind her, seeing Aidan fiddling with his string as usual, though he’s trembling more than usual. Unsurprising, all things considered. His beady eyes meet hers for a second, and it’s enough that it feels like he’s staring into her soul as if searching for a glimmer of hope that she would be his saviour in this new, unfamiliar place. But perhaps she’s reading him wrong, because she saw a tinge of fear before he looked away.

Frea grits her teeth. He’s not important right now. She turns to Lauretta.

“...How long will I be staying here?”

Lauretta runs a hand in her hair and sighs again, “For however long you need, I guess. This is where I give you to someone more qualified and they’ll take care of ya, who should be comin’ soon.” She smiles softly, “But I’ll stick around if you’ll have me. When you get your new legs you gotta show me around this place, eh? I only had a map to bring you here, and that was hardly sightseeing.”

Frea purses her lips. Lauretta has been a weird sort constant in this hectic portion of her life. Her presence is… comfortable, in a way. She’s never had female companionship quite like this before, and Frea realizes just how much she actually craves it.

“I…” she says, pausing to rearrange her thoughts, “Yes, I should show you the cathedral. It is quite the sight.” She matches Lauretta’s rueful smile with one of her own. “Lauretta, I must apologize for how I’ve acted. It was unbecoming.”

Those words were significantly harder to get out than she expected. She had seen the creases on Lauretta’s forehead grow deeper and deeper with what she said, and Frea knows this is a conversation she will be replaying in her head and wondering what else she could have said instead.

To her surprise, the medic snorts. Wrinkles form at the corner of her eyes as she jokingly pats Frea’s hand.

“Girl, you had your fuckin’ legs blown off. If anyone’s allowed to be ‘unbecomin’,’ it’s you.” Frea smiles at the crudeness of her words, though after a brief moment she feels the need to protest her but Lauretta continues before she can say anything. 

“So… About Aidan…”

Frea’s expression shifts into a moue of distaste. “He will be my servant for the time being.” She says quickly. 

Lauretta frowns. “Well, yeah, I know that much. But you’re gonna be in the hospital for a while—”

“No she will not. Lady Frea will be returning to her estate.”  
  


Both women tense at the sudden voice, having not realized someone else entered the room. Though, Frea instantly recognizes the stern yet friendly voice. She quickly faces the small, dark-complexioned woman. Her richly decorated tailcoat— which is made of a brocade jacquard fabric in four different colours— is a far cry from everything else in the hospital, no doubt making her instantly stand out. And on her breast is an emblem bearing the image of an Asnainian Great Hound, signifying her alliance to Frea’s family. 

“Saskia!” Frea exclaims, the brief excitement of seeing the woman she considers to be an aunt makes her grip the wheelchair armrests, almost lifting herself up as if she plans to run towards the steward. 

The immediate flash of her bloody legs suddenly grips her with a blinding panic, and she freezes, remembering her utterly deplorable state. 

She must look all the more ridiculous with this fucking blanket on her head, and her face flushes with embarassment. 

Saskia walks towards her with quick, measured steps, her aquiline nose pointed upwards. Frea has to make the conscious effort to not just hyperventilate right there. Lauretta blocks her view when she steps between her and Saskia.

“Woah there,” she says, “She needs medical attention. You can’t just take her back home, who are you, anyway?”

“I am Saskia Cheyne, the house steward to the Valentine family. I have orders to bring Lady Frea back home. Rest assured, she will be treated by a medical professional.” She moves past Lauretta, her face softening when she gets on her knees in front of Frea and cups on her cheeks. 

Frea can already feel the tears form, and her throat tightens considerably. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Saskia cooes, “You cannot stay here. Such an environment simply will do you no good. Not with the commonfolk. Come, I have a carriage waiting for you, and the servants have strict orders to make your return as comfortable as a transition as possible. We’ll bring you someone a little more…” Her eyes briefly flick to Lauretta, “Adroit.”

Lauretta puts her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in a petulant pout. 

Frea swallows, “Where… Where is mother? My brothers?”

“Matriarch Valentine is currently doing work with the Cult, but she will see you as soon as she’s able. Marcus and Nathaniel await your return with bated breath.”

Ah, so mother can’t even be bothered to meet her back home. Or even come to the hospital. 

Frea wipes her eyes, not willing to let the tears fall on her cheeks. “I’m— I’m sorry—”

Saskia shakes her head. “Ah, you know that apologizing to a mere house steward is both recursive and redundant, my Lady. You needn’t waste your words on me.” She squeezes her shoulder reassuringly, “Do you wish to cover up your birthmarks? I have some powder in the carriage, I know how much disdain you have for these things.”

Frea nods fitfully. She doesn’t want to look at Lauretta, knowing how pathetic she must seem, but her eyes drift to Aidan behind her regardless. He looks at her with imploring eyes. Saskia must have followed her eyes, because she speaks again.

“Ah, the young man. Matriarch Valentine mentioned something about him. He will of course accompany us, if you wish.”

She nods again, and almost immediately Saskia steps behind her to push her wheelchair. Frea switches to Utritian, quietly saying, “Aidan, come with me.” The man in question follows before signing a quick _ <Yes.> _, looking every bit like a beaten dog.

They exit the room, and Frea finds herself hiding her face again. Lauretta comes to her side, struggling to keep up with Saskia’s pace.

“Hey, hey, hey, you gonna be good?” She says, eyes worried, “Can I… Can I come wi—”

“Thank you for bringing Lady Frea back to Asnain. You needn’t worry yourself further. Goodbye.” Saskia interjects quickly, quickening her pace and leaving the medic behind.

She turns her head back, seeing Lauretta standing in the hallway, brows creased and hands wringing together. She shifts on her feet awkwardly, eyes shifting as if she’s trying to figure out her next move. 

It’s only when she’s put in the carriage does Frea remember that Lullin is a city Lauretta is completely unfamiliar with.

* * *

Multicoloured flowers that can live through Asnain’s harsh winters line the road on the way to the Valentine estate. The mansion is a colossal structure, overly large and ostentatious to the point of intimidation. It lays on a hill proudly overseeing the city.

The walkway is grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center. The honeyed stone of the chateau is smooth, and the white mullioned windows, revealed by the open wooden shutters, are spotless as usual. Its large oak door is double wide and is sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars.

Frea can feel her body is slicked with sweat. She really hopes she can get out of this hideous, stifling uniform. Her face had been covered up with makeup in the carriage, something she’s endlessly thankful for. Something so small had already built up her confidence, the powder acting as a shield.

But she’s still hopelessly nervous. Nothing could help her from the overwhelming sense of dread she feels. Saskia, bless her heart, had stayed silent for the duration of the ride. Neither of them spoke though Frea didn’t miss how often Saskia glanced at Aidan. The man sat quietly as well, no longer fidgeting every three seconds. His eyes were blank and he was still as a statue. Perhaps he had finally gotten over the chaos of coming to Lullin.

Now, Frea is being wheeled to the front steps. Saskia makes a noise of discontent. 

“Hmm… I hadn’t taken into account the stairs…”

Her room’s upstairs, too. The front door isn’t an issue, because a small army of manservants come out to lift her above the three steps. They’re men Frea doesn’t recognize, though mother always relieves the staff of their duties before hiring a new bunch every couple of months— Except for Saskia. She must have gotten a new rotation of servants just for her arrival. They’re all in baroque house-jackets, all clean-shaven, neat, with combed back black hair. And quiet. They’re definitely under orders to keep their mouths shut.

Aidan also stays silent, and continues to obediently follow her inside the mansion.

Immediately, there’s a rush of footsteps the moment the doors open.

Immediately, Frea feels the sudden, yet comforting, weight of her brother hugging her. Despite the heaviness in her stomach, she sinks into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. There’s a final squeeze before he separates from her. 

She knew from the hug alone that it was Marcus— Nathaniel never liked being touched— and honeyed shadows cast over the sharp planes of his face, but his eyes are red-rimmed and Frea is hit with a jolt of worry.

“Oh Frey-Frey! You scared us half to death!” He wails, bringing her in another quick hug, “Mother didn’t give me any details. Was it the Utritians? Are you alright?” He wails, his eyes briefly glance to what’s left of her legs, and he gasps sharply. “Acadia, we all told you not to go.”

Seconds pass, Frea’s brain taking him in, struggling to comprehend that he isn't one of the pictures she keeps in her wallet, that he is real. Her family is right in front of her.

She had imagined this situation in her mind countless times before. Most of them ended with her brothers crying and her getting kicked out. She _supposes_ that can still happen, but she tries her damndest to avoid thinking about that.

Marcus’ features are suspended between grief and joy, and she can see he’s recently trimmed his short facial hair, but it’s uneven. His black hair is uncombed. That’s not like him. She swallows, trying to smile reassuringly as best as she’s able. As his sister, she has to be strong for his sake, even if she’s the weakest in the family.

She takes a fortifying breath. “I’m… mostly fine now, really. Stable. I merely need to receive prosthetic implants now.” She has no idea if that’s actually the next step, but that hardly matters. She doubts Marcus even knows what she’s talking about. “Where is Nathaniel?”

For a moment, Marcus’ words falter into unintelligible croaks, but he manages to compose himself.

“After the new slew of servants, the cleaning, and people coming and going, it’s been much too loud for him. He’s currently holed up in his room. You know how he is.”

“And you? I thought you were being cloistered?”

His lips twitch downwards, “Mother annulled my wedding to Angelea shortly after receiving news of you being injured. I think she blames Winthrope, um, I mean Matriarch Winthrope.” His expression then forms into a shaky smile as he changes the subject, “Oh! Diana is in the backyard. I’m certain she would be over the moon to see you.”

Saskia takes this moment to interject.

“No doubt Lady Frea and Diana would enjoy each other’s company, but I have my orders to bring Lady Frea to one of the guest rooms on the first floor and await Matriarch Valentine’s return. It’s been specifically furnished for her.” She turns to Frea, “Though, perhaps I can bring Diana to you? She’s currently outside due to the cleaning, but I am sure we can make an exception for you.”

This day just feels like it’s going on for far too long. Frea shakes her head, taking another fortifying breath. “No. I shall wait in the room.” She can’t run from mother, even if she tried the woman would just hunt her down anyway. Seeing Marcus’ face again has made her slightly more confident about this whole situation. 

She turns to Aidan. “Stay here.”

He shifts on his feet awkwardly, complexion like that of a corpse and brows creased in another imploring look. Marcus leans in beside Frea. 

“Who… Who is this?”

“His name is Aidan. He’ll be a new servant. “ She replies curtly.

“Did you speak Utritian just now?”

Frea nods. “We can discuss this when I’m settled in the room, please? I am… exhausted.” The admission makes her realize how heavy her body and eyelids feels.

Marcus’ cheeks become slightly pink. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. You need rest.” He looks back to Aidan, “Are you sure you should just… keep him here?”

Saskia interjects again. 

“Let’s get her settled in first.”

At that, Marcus’ cheeks flush further in embarrassment. “Acadia, it’s as if all my etiquette lessons were all for moot. I’m sorry for being so rude, especially after all that’s happened. Here, I’ll help you.”

Marcus nearly trips doing so, cheeks reddening further. The familiarity of his clumsiness makes Frea smile, this one being genuine this time. The tension of earlier almost seems gone and she feels her heartbeat steady.

She doesn’t look back at Aidan.

* * *

“What do you mean you brought an Utritian into our home?!” Marcus whispers furiously, he sits on a chair besides Frea’s bed, holding the armrests with a white knuckle grip. Saskia stands to the side, seemingly _very_ interested in the embossed velvet curtains that have delicate ball fringe trims. Sometimes, she stares at the ceiling.

Frea’s hands absentmindedly fiddles with the bedsheets.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because! He’s an Utritian! You— You,” Marcus splutters, “After everything, why bring someone like him here? What if… What if he’s listening in on us right now?”

Frea huffs, “Rest assured, he cannot understand Asnainian. He can’t even speak, Marcus. He’s a mute. And he won’t be moving from that spot.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

He _better_ not move from that spot. “He won’t.” Frea says through gritted teeth.

“There are servants watching him. They’ll alert us if anything goes awry.” Saskia comments.

Marcus deflates, body slouching for a fraction of a second before he corrects his posture. He purses his lips into a thin line, “Alright, alright. I’ll defer to your… judgement, but I don’t trust him.” He sighs, “I’m sorry for being rude again. I was hoping being cloistered would have cured me of such a problematic trait, but it gave me a great distaste for lentil soup instead.”

Frea’s lips twitch upwards. If anything, she’s thankful he hasn’t explicitly brought up her legs again. Marcus does flick his eyes to where her feet _should_ be every now and then, but now he keeps the topic on himself. It’s a distraction she’s endlessly grateful for.

“...How do you feel about your wedding being annulled?” She asks, remembering how excited he had been upon getting engaged. He bounced on his feet, practically danced down the stairs, and tripped constantly before becoming cloistered. Frea had watched him intently, but nothing about his mannerisms told her that he feared his future spouse like the men in the Selma family. She liked to think she could at least read him correctly in that regard.

Marcus smiles sadly, his dark blue eyes glancing downwards. “It is what it is. I’m a bit embarrassed, I suppose, since having your wedding cancelled is probably the worst thing to happen for a man.” He looks at her with a lazy grin, _“Honestly,_ women would never understand how much a man dreams of his wedding. It felt like I waited my whole life to be courted by Angelea. It was like I was in a dream, truly.”

He blinks for a moment, thinking about something.

“Oh, perhaps I should refer to her as Lady Winthrope now? Goddess, am I being rude again?” His cheeks redden again, and shakes his head, “A-Anyway! My dowry has been paid back, and naturally I’ll follow mother’s lead. She and Acadia know best. I’m sure I’ll forget all about this the moment she pairs me with someone else. I just hope I don’t become someone’s second or third husband...”

He gasps softly. “Is that selfish? _Rude?_ Goddess, I’m such a mess Frey-Frey. You know, being cloistered hasn’t cured me of my clumsiness either. When I ran towards you, I tripped on the carpet and landed on you in a hug!” He puts his hands on his head in a theatrical display, “I’ve been counting, I’ve tripped almost thirty times waiting for you.”

Frea can’t help but huff a small giggle. Constant tripping is just… a thing Marcus does. Part of her thinks he might unconsciously do it on purpose. Apparently, clumsiness like this is _cute_ to some women, as it makes them want to protect the man more.

Men devise strange strategies to attract a woman. But, well, Frea is unsure if she’ll ever truly understand what goes on in a man’s head.

“I know you said Nathaniel is currently staying in his room, but has he been fine?” She asks.

Marcus nods. “He’s been fine, reading and painting as he usually does. I think mother has officially given up on trying to find him a proper suitor.” He frowns, “I don’t like the thought of him being a spinster for his whole life, but at the same time I suppose that’s the lifestyle that’s perfect for him considering how reclusive he is.”

“I see. As long as he’s healthy.” She replies.

Out of all the men she doesn’t really understand, Nathaniel is probably the man Frea understands the least. He’s got no concept of social cues. He detests keeping eye contact or being touched, and spends all day painting.

She remembers when mother intended for him to get sent to a private academy where only the finest noblemen go to be taught etiquette. The tantrum he threw was seared into her mind, it was as if he needed to scream as much as a whistling kettle needs to let out steam. In the end, he never went to the academy, and is now rarely, if ever, leaves the estate.

_“Mad as a loon, that one!”_ She heard others whisper when they were younger

Honestly, he’s lucky mother hasn’t sent him to an asylum for his behaviour. It’s something Frea is inwardly thankful for. She doesn’t want either of her brothers in a place like an asylum, and one of the things she was most excited for when she inherited the Matriarch title is having the ability to make Nathaniel’s and Marcus’ lives as comfortable as possible.

_If you inherit that title._

Frea clenches her jaw, diverting her mind elsewhere. “I must thank you, Marcus. I’m not proud to admit it, but I acted… unhinged, I suppose, after I became injured. I incessantly cried and screamed. I was inconsolable. Most of all, I worried about how you and everyone else might react to my deplorable state.”

Marcus looks as though he wants to speak, but Frea continues. 

“But you and Saskia have been… exceptionally accommodating despite my constant failures.” She can feel the muscles of her chin tremble and voice become wobbly, and she tightens her grip on the bedsheets.

Marcus gives her a sad smile and reaches over to touch her hands with his. 

“Frey-Frey, nothing that could happen to you would make me change my opinion of you. You’re my sister! And I’m sure mother would feel the same way.”

Frea looks away, “I’m terrified of seeing her again.”  
  


They stay in companionable silence for several minutes after that. Frea feels herself becoming more calm, but her heart rate quickens again after hearing the telltale noise of a carriage stopping, and the front doors opening.

She’s going to see mother now. It’s _too_ soon. It’ll always be too soon. Frea hears the loud, measured footsteps approaching the room, the sounds seeming to echo in her mind. Unease and dread blossoms within her, and when she sees mother’s form her breath hitches.

Saskia bows her head when she comes in, uttering a soft and respectful, “Matriarch.”

Mother walks with a cane, though she has no need for the instrument. The handle of the cane has the image of an Asnainian Great Hound’s head carved in, and every time she taps the floor with it Frea thinks she’s going to have a heart attack.

Frea had always considered her mother the pinnacle of elegance. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen mother _not_ wearing an outfit made of damask brocade fabric that’s trimmed with soft satin. On her neck is the Amulet of Acadian Faith, gleaming from the chandelier light, and Frea feels like it’s almost mocking her.

Mother pushes her thick braid of snow white hair over her shoulder. Every moment is poised and controlled, with deliberately calculated facial expressions. There is nothing that tells Frea anything about what she may be thinking.

“Marcus. Saskia.” She says, and even her voice makes Frea tense, “I would ask the two of you to give Frea and I privacy as we… have a great deal to discuss. However—”

Her eyes narrow. Frea’s throat goes dry.

“That will have to wait. The Utritian soiled himself in the foyer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written this chapter months ago and given it a couple of looks since then, and I'm kinda meh on it. I'm unsure on the pacing, but also I felt like I needed to hurry up and introduce some of the new characters. That ending tho, it's... if I may pat myself on the back, it's *kisses fingers* c'est magnifique!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, kicking my characters while they're down: you'll be fine

There’s a lot more men here than Aidan expected. It made him think of the brothel, and he wonders if they’re also whores like him. They’re much more… clean than the men he knew. More clothes, too. Perhaps it just works differently here. Maybe Asnainians prefer cleaner men.

They wear fancy clothes, all with dusters or brushes or feather brooms. They merely spare him glances here and there before continuing with their cleaning. Sometimes they chatter with each other like birds, immediately quieting whenever a woman wearing a similar outfit to them walks past and inspects what they’ve done. Aidan doesn’t like it whenever she looks at him. She always has her arms folded tightly over her freshly ironed uniform, staring at him like he’s a piece of meat.

Which he is, he’s well aware of that, but it doesn’t make him any less nervous. The string in his hands feels like an anchor and he keeps a hold on it. He briefly considers making the X for the cat’s cradle game Master taught him, but decides against it. Master told him to stay here, not to play with string.

So he just stands there.

Aidan feels like he’s wilting every time someone looks at him. It hadn’t bothered him too much before, but now with every passing minute it almost feels like they’re waiting for an excuse to do…  _ something  _ with him. 

He wishes Lauretta was here. At least her presence didn’t feel so viscerally uncomfortable. 

_ “Stay here.” _

He replays Master’s command in his mind over and over, telling himself that he’s just  _ fine  _ and has to keep what he’s doing. Ignore any outside influences. They’re not important. Stop thinking about the snow that was outside the train. He didn’t see any when he came into town, and he wonders where it went.

Stop thinking.

_ “Stay here.”  _ He hears again, but it’s not Master’s voice, it’s… the  _ other  _ Master’s voice. The one he had before. Her name… what was it? She’s not Master anymore, so he shouldn’t refer to her as such. Her dark eyes and hair flash in his mind, overwhelming him. His fingers twitch.

The last time the other Master— She’s not Master, he needs to find another name… Dark Hair? Yes, that’ll do.— The last time Dark Hair told him to  _ ‘stay here’  _ she put needles to his skin. He laid on the floor and she poked and prodded. When he fidgeted she slapped him, the sound echoing in the room.  _ “Stay still,”  _ she then growled, and it was certainly one of the more difficult orders to follow.

Especially when she brought a needle to one of his nipples. The effort to stay still made his body tense when she pressed the sharp end into him. Aidan gurgled as his throat constricted. 

_ This is so stupid,  _ he remembers thinking bitterly. Dark Hair piercing his nipple with a needle was so…  _ tame  _ in comparison to the various other tortures she gleefully put him through. The sting shouldn’t make him wince like this. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

_ You are a man. _

_ This is just the way things are for someone like you. _

_ Accept it. _

Dark Hair then ran a couple of fingers over his new wound, and pressed down with enough force to send a rush of stinging ache throughout Aidan. The needle was still in his nipple and the sheer discomfort outweighed the hurt. It felt tight, and a thin crimson rivulet ran down his chest.

Eventually, he was unable to summon anything other than numbness.

Aidan sighs through his nose— quietly of course, he doesn’t want to risk being a nuisance— and tries to block any memory from Dark Hair. He just needs to follow a simple command, even if being seperated from Master makes him anxious unlike anything else. 

He bites his lip.

Just stay here. Wait. 

Wait.

Wait.

It’s easy, even for a man like him. Easy when he’s hungry and has aching muscles. Cold. Dirty. Exhausted.

His clothes stick to him. How long has it been since he’s last bathed? Brushed his teeth? Combed his hair? He just wants to wash his face, at least.

And eat something.

His stomach growls, and he squirms and shifts on his feet in a feeble attempt to silence it. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, not wanting to see how people look at him, and Aidan can feel his face growing warm in humiliation. It’s a slow, dull ache in his stomach, leaving him feeling drained and empty.

Of course, he deserves not getting fed much. He resigned himself to this fate the moment Master began not letting him fully finish a meal. It’s a punishment he can take, even when hunger gnaws at him from dusk to dawn.

Aidan continues shifting on his feet. There’s another issue.

While Master has never allowed him to eat anything fully, she has allowed him to drink.

And it’s been a while since she sent him to the toilet.

He needs to pee.

He bites his lip, trying to quell the growing pressure in his bladder. Master will be back soon, surely.

_ Just wait,  _ he repeats in his head. 

_ Full bladder. Hungry. Aching muscles. Cold. Dirty. Exhausted. _

The seconds feel like minutes. It becomes a conscious effort to keep his eyes open.

There’s a squeak of something. He realizes it’s the door behind him when there’s footsteps. Steady footsteps, someone who’s walking with a purpose. They stop beside him and something makes Aidan look up.

He locks eyes with a woman significantly older than him who holds a cane in her hand. She’s got pure white hair, and from the corner of his eyes he sees everyone else stop what they’re doing and bow in her direction. Her eyes, so black and deep, feels like it’s dragging him into a bottomless well, and yet he’s rooted on the spot. 

His breath evaporates from his chest. 

His heart thumps erratically.

This woman— This woman had eyes similar to Master. The  _ other  _ Master, Dark Hair. This was someone who has hurt people before. This was someone that would snuff out her cigarette on someone’s skin. She would flay someone alive.

The fact that her expression is entirely devoid of emotion makes it worse, at least with Dark Hair he knew when a punishment was coming. This woman tells him nothing.

His body is paralyzed, and he feels like he’s drowning, but not in an ocean or a river, or even a pond. He’s been sucked into that bottomless well, drowning, and panicking, in the dark and endless abyss that stands in front of him. 

_ Run. _

Aidan’s mind screams at him.

The woman reaches to him with her lithe arms and he thinks his heart is going to jump out of his chest.

_ Runrunrunrun. _

Her hand stops at his shoulder. She only touches him with a finger, flicking some dirt off his jacket. She makes a small noise, and it’s clear the fact that he’s dirty is more pertinent than his actual presence. He’s an annoying inconvenience, nothing more, nothing less.

She takes her eyes off him, looking at the speck of dirt on her finger with an impassive look.

Aidan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and—

He feels a warmth running down his legs, and the taut pressure in his abdomen gradually begins to lessen.

There’s a gasp from one of the men, then some whispering. 

The woman merely glances down at his feet, hums in thought, and leaves.

* * *

Frea is wheeled out of the room and into the foyer, and is greeted with the sight of Aidan standing in the puddle of his own urine. His face is beet red, head facing downwards as he feebly attempts to pull his jacket over his crotch. His breathing is stuttered, and he sniffles and trembles with every intake of breath. 

“Oh dear…” Marcus mutters beside her.

Frea begins to feel like a sweltering ball of embarrassment ready to explode. She’s mortified just looking at Aidan. She grips the armrests with utter chagrin, teeth grinding the more she looks at him. What the  _ fuck.  _ Of all the things to happen, this— this  _ idiot  _ soils himself in front of her mother?!

She doesn’t know what to feel. A mix of swirling conflicting emotions overwhelms her, and eventually she settles with genuinely wanting to throw a book at him. 

“Frea,” Her mother says cooly, her hand going to Frea’s shoulder, “I know you mentioned it in your letters, but remind me again why you brought this Utritian to our home.”

Any anger she feels is immediately replaced with fear from being put on the spot, and she drops her shoulders and slumps on her chair by being stared down by her mother.

“I…” she replies shakily, “I have taken him as a personal servant. He w-was a slave, I couldn’t very well allow him to be killed…”

“You could very easily allow him to be killed. He’s an Utritian.” Mother sighs, and Frea feels her heart drop. “He is your responsibility. I will be going to my office, send Saskia to fetch me once you have finished doling out an appropriate punishment. We’ll have our discussion then.”

Marcus gasps, “S-Slave? Punishment?!”

Mother swirls her cane around in her hand and Frea readjusts her posture, sitting up straighter and nearly deafened by her own heartbeat. Mother had never raised a hand against her as a child, and yet, she fears that she would be struck. She chances a glance upwards to find her mother looking at her, considering her, and continuing to swirl her cane.

She answers Marcus while still looking at Frea.

“He’s a newly appointed servant. Wetting the carpet is unacceptable behaviour worthy of a caning.” She brings her cane forward, eyes drilling a hole through Frea, “Here is my cane, or would you prefer to use a belt?”

Frea can’t risk disappointing her further. Outright refusal feels like it would be a death sentence.

But she feels entirely unworthy of holding mother’s cane.

She swallows thickly. “I’ll… I’ll use the belt… and I’ll do it in the privacy of my new room…”

Mother nods once. “Very well.” When Marcus makes a small noise of discontent she points her chin at him, “Marcus, go to your room. Affairs such as these are no place for a man.” Then she looks at the array of servants, “All of you will have your pay reduced for having the gall to just rudely stand there and stare. Should any of you neglect your duties like this again, you will be fired. Get back to work.”

She hears her brother clamp his mouth shut, uttering a soft apology before quickly leaving. The other servants also stutter out apologies, and there’s a flutter of steps as they hastily rearrange themselves to continue cleaning and moving to other rooms.

Mother leaves too, the familiar noise of her cane tapping on the floor sending shivers down Frea’s spine. 

Soon, it’s just her, Saskia and Aidan.

Feeling irritation quickly fill her, Frea begins wheeling herself to her room. 

“Aidan, come with me,” she bites out, and then switches to Asnainian, “Saskia, please get someone to clean the mess he made.”

* * *

The silence in the room is suffocating. Aidan doesn’t know where he’s dropped it, but the string is no longer in his hands, which only serves to make him more anxious. His pants are sticky and uncomfortable and each step makes him cringe. He supposes he should be lucky the brown skin woman is waiting outside, and it’s just the two of them in the room now.

Master runs a hand through her hair with an annoyed huff. She taps her leg with her other hand, and it’s clear that if she had the ability, she’d be pacing around the room right about now. Her brows are furrowed, jaw tense, teeth grinding. All because of him. 

_ Stupid slave,  _ he thinks,  _ all you had to do was wait and you failed even that. _

She looks at him and their eyes meet. Momentarily, he sees some similarities between Master and the older woman who frightens him. They’ve both got darkly coloured eyes, but while the older woman’s eyes are bottomless pits, Master’s… are puddles. They don’t make him feel like he’s drowning.

Aidan looks downwards. He shouldn’t be thinking anything like that.

“You peed yourself.” Master says suddenly, though it sounds more like a question rather than an observation. 

Swallowing a sob, he nods, before remembering her previous order. He lifts his hands to sign a quick  _ <Yes.> _

First the vomit, and how this. What’s next? How much more miserable can everything become?

“...I…” She clears her throat, and her next words sound more sure, more confident, “I cannot let that go unpunished.”

Of course. This is only natural. This is what he wants deep down.

And yet, his chest feels enormous and empty, ringing and rushing fills his ears and he has to force his breathing to stay calm. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing upright.

“Give me your belt,” Master says shakily, and she clears her throat again, “And disrobe.”

If anything, taking these clothes off almost feels like a reprieve. He needs what is coming. This is fine. This is the natural way of things. This is what happens to a man like him. Aidan’s breathing becomes shallower and faster, and yet a sense of calmness befalls him. His mind becomes blank, and he silently takes off his clothes without protest.

It’s fine. This is just how things are.

Clothes now on the floor, he kneels in front of Master and holds his belt to her. She doesn’t look at him. Her face is turned to the side with an expression he can only interpret at disgust. Aidan feels a pang of something in his chest, before immediately chastising himself for thinking she’d ever be anything  _ other  _ than disgusted after doing something so disgraceful in her home.

She takes the belt from him, while still not looking at him. “Get on your hands and knees and remain still.”

He does so, feeling like a table at her feet. He’s acted as a table before for Dark Hair. She’d put hot cups and plates on his back. Sometimes she used him as a footrest, too. 

Just as he’s trying to ignore those memories to focus on what’s about to happen, he feels the blow on his back. 

It wasn’t hard. He’d describe the pain as far and distant, but it was familiar. Aidan had been belted countless times before, and this hit calms his breathing. This is right. This is fine. This is what he deserves.

It feels… nostalgic.

It anchors him.

She hits him again, harder this time. His sight falters as he blinks longer. 

“You’ve embarrassed me in front of my own mother.” Master says, and her voice cracks. The very fact sends a surge of numbness throughout Aidan and he’s unable to keep his eyes from watering. His eyes glaze ahead and he no longer sees anything.

She hits him again. And again. Each one becomes harder than the last.

It feels like he’s drowning again.

There’s a pounding in the back of his head when she hits him again and her voice snaps above him.

“You’ve ruined everything.” There’s another crack in her voice. His body becomes a distant tingling sensation, and he arches his back to welcome another hit.

He invites her strikes. Her taking and consuming him— it was right. He begs for his own annihilation with his body.

It’s what he needs. He needs to feel every second, every touch, wants every sob and whatever else he can vocalize to be authentic for her. He needs her to know he deserves this, that he understands his punishment is necessary.

_ This is only natural. _

She keeps hitting him, each time he hears the whistle of the belt in the air before it strikes him. The pain feels fuzzy and distant. He’s severed himself from it. He’s just a doll. He’s not a person, so he doesn’t feel anything.

But each strike still makes him see stars behind his eyelids, and his breathing wavers.

There’s another hit, another reminder how much of a failure he is.

He thinks about all the women who have used him before Master. How they smirked, how their eyes roved every part of him, how they slid their hot hands across his body, how they hit him, how they kicked him, how they brought needles, knives and cigarettes to his skin.

_ Those, too, were only natural. _

His ears ring with another hit from the belt. It’s almost like he can feel every sensation of every strike he’s ever received in his life but they’re also fuzzy and distant. Dull, just like his thoughts.

“Repulsive,” he hears Master whisper bitterly, and the next blow is severe enough he bites his lip hard enough it begins to bleed.

The hits come in quick succession for several moments and Aidan nearly buckles beneath them. Then, it stops as quickly as it had begun. He realizes he’s had his eyes shut and he opens them, seeing a small droplet of blood on the floor from his cracked lip. He blinks, and the blood is joined by drops of tears.

He hears the belt dropped on the floor, and he remains still. He steadies his breathing, but he doesn’t know how to stop his body from trembling. He just stares at the floor and sniffles, tasting the copper in his mouth. 

He feels hopelessly dizzy.

Once again, he thinks about every other punishment he’s ever received, and Aidan wonders if he’s ever actually felt alive in his entire life.

* * *

Frea’s hand shakes uncontrollably. Her lips tremble. Her vision is unfocused.

She’s never hit someone like that before.

For all her thoughts of wanting to throttle this man, actually doing it makes her hands clammy, and there is the glisten of a cold sweat trailing across her body. Her eyes are as wide as if someone was coming to deliver the fatal blow. And yet all she sees is a naked slave on his hands and knees, with his back nothing more than a large bruise at this point.

Her body doesn’t feel like her own anymore.

Frea breathes in and out but air wouldn't enter her lungs. Starved for air, her heart races at tremendous speeds, and her lungs shallowly rise and falls in time. She sits there for what feels like an eternity, but it’s only been an agonizing few seconds.

She turns sharply, awkwardly wheeling her chair so she doesn’t have to keep looking at Aidan. She’s seen him naked before when she bathed him, but she avoided looking at him too much. Now, she’s gotten the chance to drift her eyes across his muscular back.

Handsome, that is the word she would use to describe how he looked, even after… soiling himself, he somehow still looked stunning. Even on his hands and knees, even with the amount of scars he has, even with all his new bruises, his well-toned body sent a strike of heat through her core.

It makes her want to throw up.

His pain. His fear. And—

_ And— _

She clenches her fists. 

His body. His vulnerable, naked body. 

He was hers, body and mind. A slave owner. She knew that already, but now the reality finally sinks in.

One of Frea’s hands goes to her hair and she pulls.

_ Repulsive. _

_ I am such a repulsive woman. _

Ah, but she knew that already as well. The moment she became a cripple she became repulsive.

She takes in a breath, air finally filling her lungs again, and she lets it all out in a resigned and weary sigh. Frea feels as though that one sigh signals the true beginning of her passive deterioration.

Her life really is over.

“Go cover yourself with the bedsheets,” she says quietly, and she hears Aidan begin to move behind her. Then she sighs again, leaning back in her chair as she tries to regain herself.

She calls for Saskia, and tells her she’s ready to see mother now.

* * *

“Would it be remiss for me to ask how the punishment was?” Mother asks casually as she takes a seat for herself. She glances to where Aidan sits in the corner, huddled in layers of blankets and staring at nothing. “I know the first punishment is always difficult, but I hope you’re aware that it was necessary. Especially for an Utritian.”

Frea nods wordlessly. The sooner you punish a mistake, the sooner you can correct it. That’s what she’s been taught.

There’s a moment of silence, and mother continues. “Now that the incursion has been dealt with, let us discuss the unfortunate state of your body. Tell me what happened. Why exactly did you bring this man here.”

Frea has to make a conscious effort to keep her gaze on mother, but it keeps drifting away to some part on the wall behind her.

“Haven’t you received word about what occurred already?” Frea asks softly.

“I wish to hear it from yourself.”

“I thought I would see you at the train station,” Frea says, surprising herself, but the words keep tumbling out of her lips. “And I thought I’d be seeing a doctor at this point.”

The moment she says that Frea regrets it. Speaking to her mother like that felt viscerally wrong.

Something flashes beneath the surface of mother’s hardened expression. It’s so quick Frea isn’t sure she didn’t just imagine it, and she hurries to investigate the sudden shift. But it was already too late, the emotion disappears before she could identify it, like reaching desperately for an escaped balloon; the string dangling so tantalizingly close but the wind pushes it away and it's lost forever.

Mother’s expression is a mask impassivity once more, and Frea finds herself looking at the wall again to avoid meeting her eyes.

Mother’s voice is cool and calm, “Are you bleeding out?”

Frea blinks.

“What?”

“Are you in dire need of medical assistance?”

“N-No? I’m stable, that’s what Lau— the medic told me.”

Mother leans back, eying her hands as she picks at invisible dirt underneath her fingernails. “Then Dr. Kippe will examine you as soon as she’s able. It’s late, and I will not inconvenience anyone else unless it is urgent. I’ve already worked tirelessly with the Cult to ensure that they will prevent members of other Houses from seeing you. No one of note caught a glimpse of you while you were being carted off to...” she flicks her hand lazily, “that pigsty they call a hospital.”

Frea lowers her head, feeling a horrible warmth fill her cheeks. 

“You didn’t meet me at the train station because… you were doing damage control, is that it?”

“The Cult has made you invisible to prying eyes for the time being, though I am aware I cannot keep you hidden away forever. Nonetheless, your reputation may be salvageable, and we can perhaps fabricate a different story of what occurred. You needn’t worry, Frea, everyone will be made aware that creating unsavoury rumours is… inadvisable.”

Frea continues looking at her lap, her mind replaying the explosion again. It feels like she’s got pins and needles in her legs, and the more she thinks about what’s left of her body the more she hears only one word.

_ Repulsive. _

“Now, Frea,” her mother says, and she meets her eyes for a moment. Her stare is like a knife to her ribs and it takes considerable effort to keep eye contact, “Tell me what happened. Tell me how you traveling to Utreau had anything to do with our Holy Mother.”

Ah, there it is. Acadia. Everyone’s actions reflect on Acadia, that’s what the sermons have told her. Deep down, Frea knows she has to repent for the disaster she wrought upon herself. 

Praying was always a source of comfort. Now, she isn’t sure it’ll give her anything other than a sense of dread. She desperately wants to reconnect with a semblance of her original faith but it too seems to drift away from her fingers like an escape balloon.

“It’s a Valentine’s duty to eliminate the Empress’ enemies…”

“There was no one left to eliminate.”

_ And even if there was, you’d never be able to actually kill anyone, even an Utritian,  _ a harsh voice screams at her.  _ You’ll never lead the Cult. It’s why mother never taught you how to fight. _

“I… I wanted to honour Acadia through the creation of a-art… With my camera… I wanted to impress you in another way.”

_ No, you wanted to run away.  _ The voice in her mind has such a biting tone she flinches at it, and soon there’s an awful cackling echoing in the back of her head. Her own mind is mocking her and she swallows thickly.

“And where is your camera?” Mother asks.

In her many and varied imaginings of returning to Asnain Frea thought people would be congratulating her, with a genuine smile on her mother’s lips as she told her  _ “Well done, Frea.”  _ That her photos would be timeless and remembered forever. That she’d elevate the Valentines in a new way. 

Now, she has to bite down on the insufferable disappointment.

“It was destroyed.” She says at length.

“And the young man?”

“I wanted him to be my muse,” Frea replies with gritted teeth, “A-And Acadia preaches that you should be kind to your men.”

“He is not your man.” Each of mother’s responses feel like a blow to the chest, “Tell me exactly what happened to cause you to become injured.”

Frea’s chest constricts, and she has to blink several times as her brain catches up with her. 

_ “He,”  _ she says it like it’s an insult, “went outside. I thought it would be a good opportunity for him, and maybe I could get some p-pictures. He went off on his own and almost touched a tripwire. I pushed him away, and I must have stepped on it.” She gasps sharply, remembering the harrowing event once more. Frea finds she just wants to dissolve away into nothingness.

The silence that occurs seems to drag on for eons. 

Soon, mother makes a small noise, something akin to a hum and Frea just wants to block out the sound.

“Hmm. How heroic, however ‘killed by a tripwire in Utreau’ is not an epitaph worthy of a Valentine, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m not worthy of the Valentine name!” Frea spits out, and soon a sharp, broken sob pierces the air as she begins to cry. She didn’t want to cry, goddess, she wanted to keep some semblance of dignity, but her life no longer has any direction or meaning. 

Mother’s very presence exemplified the epitome of her shame and failure as a human being.

Frea dry-heaves, eyes awash with tears, hands trembling. “I can’t— I can’t read people, I know I’ll never be able to lead the Cult, I can’t even make any art, I can’t make anyone respect me because of these… these fucking  _ defects  _ on my face and now my legs are fucking gone!” 

It was as if she was transported to the day she saved Aidan. She howls and wails like she did then, pulling on her hair in a desperate attempt further her own destruction. 

Her entire body trembles, her tears and snot dripping steadily onto her jacket. She was hideous. She had to be. And soon, her dry racking sobs became shaky, delusional giggles. 

“Aha… I can’t even be a good Master… not with Aidan pissing himself like that on the first day… Ahaha…”

She soon returns to sobbing again. She only pauses to draw breath, and everything becomes a blur. Her chin trembles as if she was a small child again. She breathes in heavier than before, but she was gasping for air that simply wasn’t there.

“You— You,” she pleads between each broken sob, “You have to get a new heir. Is it possible for you to reinstate your harem to try for another daughter…? P-Perhaps you can train someone… a-and adopt them.” 

Her chest rises and falls unevenly as she continues to gasp for breath. Ah, she’s losing her mind again. Just when she thought she grabbed onto a sense of normalcy after speaking with Marcus, it’s gone again.

Acadia wants her dead. That’s the only explanation Frea can think of, and she continues sobbing. There’s no sound other than hers echoing in the room, and she thinks that even Aidan must have no respect for someone so pathetically weak. The thought of someone like  _ him  _ thinking her unworthy is almost enough to make her laugh again.

The hand on her head almost makes her flinch hard enough to fall off her chair. 

“Frea,” mother’s voice makes her stop dry-heaving, if only for a moment, “You are my daughter.”

Somehow, those words felt like a threat.

“And as my daughter, you have Valentine blood within you.” Her hand runs through Frea’s hair in a deceptively gentle way. “If you are intent on no longer being my heir, then give me another.”

Frea blinks, craning her head to look at mother, but her vision is still blurry. 

Mother continues, “There are many men worthy of being your concubine. Spend a night, or several, with them, and produce a daughter.”

The world seems to stop, and Frea can’t find any words. “I… I…”

“I appreciate your candour, Frea. You’ve made it clear you’ve no interest in becoming Matriarch.” Frea blinks again, and soon she sees that mother… has the same impassive expression she always wears. 

“Though you still have a duty and an obligation as a Valentine,” the hand on her hair leaves, and Frea can only stare at the ceiling as mother begins walking towards the door. “It is late. Rest, and think hard about what I’ve just said. And bathe. You and the Utritian have a rather unfortunate odour.”

The door opens, and mother speaks her final words.

“Rest assured, the Winthrope Matriarch will not be leaving this debacle unscaved. She will have her comeuppance for allowing you to… become like this. Goodnight.”

The door closes.

Frea sits there, lips still trembling. She can’t stop thinking about what mother just said to her, and she replays the conversation in her head, wondering if she should have said anything else.

In the end, she just wishes she could just disappear.

* * *

Today has been a lot.

Aidan sits there, fighting the urge to crawl towards Master. She looks utterly defeated.

He has no idea what she and the older woman talked about, but Master started crying, and it upset him. He wanted to go to her, and to invite her to hit him again. Surely she has some stress to relieve.

But she didn’t tell him to approach her, so he stayed put.

And he was afraid of the older woman, but he didn’t want to think about that.

Master sits there for a long time. She stares at the ceiling, and soon begins to rub her forehead. If only he could offer her tea, or  _ something.  _ He wonders if he should sign something, ask her if she needs anything, but he doesn’t know if she’ll even see his hands moving. 

So they sit around a little longer in deafening silence.

Eventually, she says something, though it’s in the language he doesn’t understand. The brown skinned woman walks in, they exchange words, she touches Master’s cheek, and leaves.

She comes back soon, with some men and other women. They haul something that looks like a large tin. A wash basin, he realizes, when they pour steaming hot water into it. It immediately looks inviting.

Master is given a cup of what Aidan assumes is tea, and she takes a sip before exhaling a long breath and closing her eyes. 

After several seconds, she opens them, exchanges more words with the brown skinned woman, and all the new people leave the room. Once again, it’s just him and Master.

“Get in the tub and wash yourself. There’s soap and shampoo on the side you can use.” She says, and Aidan wastes no time taking the bedsheets off himself and approaching the wash basin. 

The water is warm. It actually gives his fingers a slight sting when he touches it, which makes him quickly move his arm back. 

Just as quickly, he thinks about not wanting to further disappoint Master, so he brings his hand back and watches the water move softly around his outstretched fingers. He stands on shaky legs, and brings himself into the tub. He has to suppress the urge to hiss when the water caresses his bruised back. He stretches lightly when he sits down, and soon the warmth becomes a welcoming sensation.

It’s nice, especially when he doesn’t have any open wounds. He doesn’t want to think about the time he had to bathe in frigid waters after Dark Hair pried his finger nails off with a blunt instrument. The mere thought makes him shake.

Aidan distracts himself by washing his face, and reaches over to grab the soap.

“You know,” Master says idly, and Aidan stops his movements to look at her. She’s not looking at him, instead she’s slowly swirling the tea in her cup. He wonders if she’s talking at herself rather than him. “This is the second time you are bathing before me. Usually, men always wash after the women, so they often have to deal with the cold and dirty water.” 

She huffs, “I’ll just bath tomorrow. In a proper tub.” She says glumly.

Master takes a sip after a moment. “I hope you’re grateful for having warm water. I can’t guarantee you’ll have it again.”

He  _ is  _ grateful. He knows he doesn’t deserve half of this generosity. He’d kiss her feet if he were able.

_ <Thank you, Master.> _ He signs, though she’s still not looking at him.

Aidan carefully begins washing his hands with the soap, before moving onto the rest of the body. He makes sure to get every part of his body as he’s able, as it would do him no good to be dirty. What if Master wants to bed him? He’ll need to be clean for that. Anything less would be unacceptable, and probably worthy of punishment.

The soap smells like cinnamon. He likes it.

Washing his back is more… difficult. Reaching it is one thing, but he has to touch the skin extra lightly to not agitate the various bruises. 

He begins washing his hair, seeing the water softly drip from his fringe. He can’t quite help it, but soon he begins thinking about when Master actually helped him bathe. How her hands gently caressed his scalp, it was such a far cry from how she beat him.

He misses those soft hands in his hair.

As soon as he thinks that, he bites his already sore lip. 

_ Don’t think about pointless things. _

_ It’s your fault she’s like this now. _

Aidan keeps washing his hair.

Master’s voice takes him out of his thoughts.

“...I suppose since you’ll be living here you need to know who’s who.” She says tiredly, “The woman with the dark skin is Saskia. She’s the house steward, and I suppose she’s technically your boss, but you’ll take orders from me. Understand?”

_ <Yes.> _

“She’s from the Southern Isles, in case you were wondering why she looked so…” She scratches her head, and he sees she’s got the book of sign language open on her lap, “Foreign.” Then she looks at him with furrowed brows, “Do you know about the Southern Isles?”

He’s never heard of it before. He isn’t sure if he knows what ‘isles’ is, since that’s also a word he’s never heard of before either.

_ <No.> _

Master snorts. “It’s a cluster of islands to the south. Not that difficult to infer.”

Aidan wonders why she even asked him that question, but he definitely feels a little stupid now.

There’s a squeak, and Master slowly and slightly awkwardly turns her chair a bit. She then reaches out for something on the nightstand next to the bed. She leans out far enough it looks like she’s about to fall, but she grabs a folded piece of paper.

She drops it immediately after, and mutters something angrily. It’s in the other language, but something tells Aidan it’s an expletive and he tenses. He should help, he really should— he should be getting out of this tub for her and picking up the paper. This must be a test on how useful he can be—

He thinks for too long. Master gets the paper before he even moves to get out of the tub and his heart sinks.

With an irritated huff, Master unfolds the paper and Aidan waits with bated breath for another belting.

It doesn’t happen. Instead she shows him the image. A map, he realizes. He’s seen one or two of these in the brothel, though they were maps of the town.

“This is Asnain. This is where we are right now,” she grunts out, “This is Utreau. This is where you were before we came here. Understand?”

He understands her meaning, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t confused. Still, he nods and signs.  _ <Yes.> _

No hits come.

She continues speaking, “The woman I was speaking to earlier is my mother. Don’t make her mad or get in her way.” She narrows her eyes, “And don’t soil yourself in front of her again. If you need to use the bathroom, get my attention. Don’t just stand there like an idiot.”

His cheeks redden from humiliation. So perhaps that order was a test on his intelligence and he failed. Of course he failed.

_ <Yes, I understand. I am sorry, Master.> _

So the frightening woman was her… mother. 

_ Mother? _

Master had mentioned her before, hadn’t she? She was speaking to her? Praying to her? He still doesn’t know what praying is, but Master was praying to someone called Acadia? She mentioned her mother is a goddess.

_ “An ethereal being. Immortal. She’s everywhere.” _

Definitely a frightening woman. He hopes he can avoid interacting with her in the future.

“The man with the short black hair, I don’t know if you’ve actually seen him. The one with the stubble, he’s my brother Marcus. He’s the tallest person here so he’s probably hard to miss. There’s another man with brown hair and eyes, who’s about this tall,” she demonstrates the person’s height with her hand, “He’s Nathaniel. He’s also my brother. Don’t upset either of them.”

_ Brother,  _ not servant or slave. They may be men, but they’re related to Master, so clearly they’re of higher rank than him. More important. He wonders if they’ll order him, too. He supposes as long as they don’t conflict with Master’s orders, it should be fine.

He signs again,  _ <Yes.> _

“Don’t touch Nathaniel,” Master says, a small, almost nostalgic smile twitches at her lips. “He really doesn’t like being touched. He’s a bit childish, but I doubt you’ll be interacting with him much anyway.”

_ <Yes.> _

Master leans back on her chair, tapping her fingers on her cup. “I suppose that’s everyone important for now.” She closes her eyes for a moment, as if her next words take her considerable effort to say, “And… if you have any questions… I  _ suppose  _ you can ask them. Just so you don’t have any more embarrassing mistakes.” 

Of course, embarrassing her is the last thing he wants, but it also distinctly sounds like she doesn’t want him asking anything. There has to be wrong questions, and he wonders if those will result in another punishment. He decides to play it safe, and sign another  _ <Yes.> _

Some more time passes, and the water in the tub begins to become lukewarm. He considers asking her if he’s allowed to get out, but he sees something flash in her eyes. Recognition? No, she’s remembering something.

“Your family,” she says accusingly with narrowed eyes, “Why did you lie? I— I know you were lying. I’m sure of it.”

Aidan tenses his shoulders and looks down, expecting another hit. He didn’t think he was lying, but Master looks scary, so he shakily brings his hands up. Right, they were talking on the big carriage before they had to suddenly leave.

_ <I am sorry, Master. I don’t know if my father is alive or not.> _

He really should have just said at the start.  _ Stupid. _

Silence, again. He doesn’t dare look at her.

Eventually, there’s a long-winded sigh. “...Oh. That’s it? You don’t know?”

_ <I haven’t seen him since I was sold.> _

“Repeat that.”

That gives him pause, and he looks up. Now she’s the one that avoids looking at his face.

“I didn’t catch that. I’m still learning how to sign.”

Right. He moves his hands slower this time and repeats himself.

She keeps her eyes on his hands, “I see. How old are you? Do you know at least that?”

_ <No.> _ Aidan pinches his brows in thought. Father sometimes celebrated his birthday, if he remembers correctly.  _ <I was nineteen when I was sold.> _ At least, that’s the last number he remembers father celebrating.  _ <I don’t know how long I stayed with my previous Master, but it was a while. I didn’t count the days.> _

Master is frowning now. “...So you lost count.” She turns her head, hand going to her mouth, and she mutters softly. “Nineteen…”

She quickly recomposes herself and talks again, though it seems like she’s talking to herself again. 

“I don’t know if my father is alive either. I never met him. Marcus, Nathaniel and I all have different fathers. I’m not sure why my mother never seemed interested in marrying, as she just took in concubines.”

Her voice is almost wistful. 

“I’m… expected to have my own harem… or at least someone to give me a daughter…” Her voice hitches and she purses her lips into a thin line in a look of annoyance, “W-Why am I telling  _ you _ this? Go dry yourself with the towel and cover yourself with the blanket.”

Briefly startled, Aidan begins doing as ordered. Master mutters something in the other language before speaking to him again.

“You will receive proper clothing tomorrow, and I have to make sure you start learning Asnainian so I don’t have to keep speaking this damnable language. For now just… sleep on the floor.”

_ <Yes.> _ He signs, getting ready for the evening. Master barks out something in her language, then other men and women come in to take the tub away, and give her a new set of bedsheets. The brown ski— Saskia and Master exchange words, and Aidan lays on the floor.

The floor is familiar, though Aidan knows he’ll continue missing Esme’s nightly visits. Where is she? No, that’s not important. He should just forget all that. 

Forget everything of his old life, just like when he belonged to Dark Hair.

* * *

“Careful, the tea is hotter than the sun itself!” Marcus titters on happily. Like any man of noble upbringing, he covers his mouth when he laughs. He sits by Frea’s side while she lays on the bed, and the two of them indulge in crumpets and jam. 

The morning has barely started, and Frea is surprised her brother is up so early in the first place. There’s a steady patter of rain upon the window, with the nascent rays of the rising sun struggling to peek out of the clouds and curtains.

Aidan remains in his corner, and while the blanket is over his shoulders and covering his body, she can tell he’s kneeling. Marcus keeps glancing at him. He’s not very subtle about it.

Frea takes a bite from her crumpet. Earlier, she had done some air punches, mostly out of an attempt to distract herself rather than for exercise. Arms tired, she now lazily swirls her tea, staring at the steam and looking through pages of the book about sign language. Occasionally she practices with her free hand. By this point, she’s accepted that languages are her only real talent.

“You’re up early,” she comments.

Marcus gives her a sheepish smile, “Oh, I couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night. So I decided to clean myself up. See? I’ve properly given myself a clean shaven look.” He points to his face, “I really… let myself go worrying about you, I suppose, but after seeing you I realized it’s so selfish of me to not take proper care of myself when you’re like… you know.” 

He scratches the back of his neck, obviously a bit embarrassed about what he’s saying but he keeps going off on his tangent. “Goddess, I hope I’m not being rude again. I believed myself to be taking the attention away from you for how awful I looked, so I felt guilty. Does that make sense? I hope it makes sense. Anyway, I cleaned myself up, because as they say, there’s no reason for a man to not look his best!”

Frea thinks she knows what he’s getting, Marcus has never been the most eloquent of men, but she can see he’s trying to have her best interests at heart in his own way. Looking closer at him, he’s got a smidgen of make-up on, which isn’t surprising. Both men and women are expected to conceal any blemishes on their faces, though only with the bare minimum of make-up that matches their skin tone. A ‘natural look’ is acceptable, and anything else is considered too gaudy and going against what Acadia wishes for.

“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself,” Frea says, “I had worried my deplorable state would have traumatized you.”

Marcus frowns, reaching over to take her hand in his like yesterday, “Frey-Frey, I don’t matter when it comes to this. Only you matter. The only thing I should do is support you as a brother.”

Frea smiles sadly. “...Thank you, Marcus. I appreciate it.”

“And forgive me if I’m being crude, but I suppose the Utritian matters too, since we can’t leave him be.” He glances at Aidan again, “He’s such a sad thing. I do hope you’ll be giving him a bed soon. And food?”

She raises a single questioning brow.

“I thought you didn’t trust him?”

Marcus’ sheepish smile returns. “Aha… Well, after seeing him so… milquetoast and beaten down… I see why you gave him mercy! I cannot help but have a different opinion of him now. Should you need any help with him, I hope I can assist and support you. He reminds me of Remi, truly.”

For a moment, Frea doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but a memory of a past sermon comes to mind.

_ “In the earliest of days, in a time when the world was still raw, Remi, son of Acadia, decided to walk amongst the mortals. For twenty days and twenty nights he observed, walking amongst them without being recognized. Soon, he wandered aimlessly into the vast mountains. On the top of the highest peak, he was greeted by his aunt, Iovanna. _

_ “Iovanna, however, did not recognize him. He had spent so much time with mortals that he acted and looked like one. Iovanna, recently spurned by the fact her sister Acadia took one of her husbands as her own, forced herself onto Remi. She took him as her own, sleeping with him for three days and two nights. _

_ “Remi cried and cried, his tears soon creating all rivers in Asnain, and upon seeing the change in the land, Acadia investigated. Seeing her sister forcing herself on her son, Acadia slew Iovanna and a divine snow storm raged on for centuries. _

_ “Let it be known that while Iovanna is dead, a part of her still resides in each and every woman. A dark, ugly part of her that can overtake and destroy any man. Temper these urges, women of faith. Only when a man is willing will he fully submit to you. And men, do not become too adventurous, for you never know who creeps in the snow. Know where you belong, and allow your women to protect you.” _

Frea keeps staring at the pages before her, absentmindedly signing random letters.

_ Every woman has a piece of Iovanna within her.  _

She clenches her fist. She doesn’t want to think about that, so instead she sighs. “Yes, Aidan is indeed as unfortunate as Remi. I’ll agree with you on that.” 

She thinks about Remi’s palpable absence from the pantheon, and from many other scriptures. He’s seldom mentioned in anything except for that one story, often referred to as Acadia’s ‘missing son.’

No one wants to talk about men like Remi. No one wants to see men like Remi. Perhaps it would be best if she just kept Aidan hidden away.

She keeps speaking blankly, “I will…  _ try  _ to give him a comfortable enough life, provided he works with me. If you wish to speak with him in any capacity it may be prudent for you to learn sign language.” She decides it’s time to change the subject and focus, the mere mention and thought of Aidan beginning to irritate her.

“Learning sign language may make you more appealing to future women. Have you any idea if mother will engage you with someone else any time soon?”

Marcus’ cheeks redden and he almost chokes on a crumpet. “Goddess, I’ve no idea! But as a man of marriageable age, talking to anyone who isn’t my wife makes me want to bite my tongue off,” he says jokingly. “Someone svelte and regal like Angelea, who can protect me… Oh, she’s every man's dream!”

Frea’s lips twitch downwards. He’s definitely more upset about having his marriage annulled than he lets on, and she’s about to mention that, but Marcus waggles his finger at her face.

“Aha! But enough about me! As I said, it’s not about me, but you! And I have someone who’s just dying to see you again, and give you all the attention you need in times like these!”

He moves quickly to the door, almost tripping when his foot catches on the carpet, and he looks back at Frea and utters a quick, “You didn’t see that.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he opens the door. Immediately, a flurry of pure black fur barrels towards Frea with impressive speed and she has to hold her teacup above her head to avoid spilling it. The dog springs toward her in bounding steps that are almost like jumps. She leaps up, pawing with her fore paws for attention and her wet tongue licking furiously at anything she can reach. And as a dog as big as her, she can reach a great many things.

“Diana!” Frea exclaims with a laugh, “Goddess, yes, hello! I’ve missed you too!” For the blissful moments her dog wags her tail and paws at her, Frea’s problems are mere distant thoughts. She puts her cup to the side and buries her face in Diana’s thick, lustrous fur.

Diana makes small whining noises, before giving one great bark. She leaps upwards again, and Frea finds herself being forced to lie down under the great weight of the animal, and she laughs. Her face is quickly slathered with Diana’s tongue, and Marcus comes behind the dog to begin tugging her off Frea.

“Now, now,” He says, though it’s clear he has to do some considerable physical exertion to pry Diana off, “Let her rest, Diana, you can have your fun later!”

After several tugs on her collar, he’s able to get Diana off. The dog keeps pawing at her, whining, but soon she’s able to sit down and settle down. Her tail thumps against the floor.

Oh, to be a dog and not have worries in life whatsoever.

At least Frea knows Diana will never judge her being a cripple.

Diana’s perk up in attention, before flicking. She turns her head towards Aidan, and Frea follows her gaze. He’s still kneeling, frozen, and eyes wide.

Had he ever seen a dog before?

Obviously interested in the new person she hasn’t met before, Diana happily trots towards him, and Aidan suddenly stands. The blanket nearly falls off his shoulders and he makes several steps backwards before hitting his back against the wall and wincing. Diana sniffs at his feet and Aidan looks as though he wants to blend into the wall. 

Marcus’ reaction is instant, and he tries to pull her back. “Oh, Diana, don’t be rude now. You can say hello to him later. Come back to Frea now, yes?” He says in a voice he always uses for her, like he’s talking to a baby.

Frea moves her body instinctively, moving to the side of the bed as if she wants to approach Aidan despite her obvious physical limitations. It’s not her lack of feet that stops her, however, rather she feels a distinct, warm and uncomfortable slickness at her crotch and she stops her movements. Looking down, she sees a red spot form on her pants. This has happened in Utreau once or twice, but it was never an issue. Not like now.

She closes her eyes and sighs.

_ Fantastic. As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with. _

Well, it certainly is a good enough excuse to rescue Aidan from Diana. “Marcus,” she calls, “As much as I would love to have Diana here, can you escort her out? And bring Saskia here? I need to have a change of clothes. And I might as well get something for Aidan as well while I’m at it.”

Marcus nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, yes, of course. I’ll bring her later if you want to still see her?” He tugs at his shirt collar, turning to Aidan. 

“I’m sorry if I might have caused you any distress.” He says, despite his words being lost on the slave.

* * *

At least, if Frea suddenly becomes more emotional for no reason, she has something to blame it on. Menstruation is such a laborious and…  _ stupid  _ biological function. She knows the point of it, obviously, but she can’t stand it. When she had bled for the first time, there was a celebration. A party with only other women as the men of the house had to stay in their rooms. Now, she can only roll her eyes when ‘that time of the month’ starts.

She had heard that there is a pill in development that would make a woman menstruate once every three months, as opposed to every month. She dearly wants that to become a reality soon.

While it is an inconvenience at best, now, the blood coming out of her serves as a reminder of what mother told her. 

_ “If you are intent on no longer being my heir, then give me another.” _

She rubs her stomach. It makes sense mother would say that, of course. A completely logical response. 

But Frea really, really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want to experience pregnancy. She had figured she would eventually come to terms with it, accept it, and happily have a child by the time she’s thirty-five— and that was the  _ minimum _ age she had planned for. Now, as a twenty-year old, she’s already faced with the potential reality of giving birth. That’s just unheard of! It’s just something else added into her ever growing mountain of anxiety.

She’s had countless classes regarding the subject. She’s well aware of what happens, and that the process is usually safe with all the resources dedicated to it.

And she still doesn’t want to experience it.

_ Ah, I really am such a poor follower of Acadia. _

Her limbs tingle and her brain races in the most unhelpful way. Everything feels so alien. 

“My Lady, are you alright?”

Saskia’s voice brings her back to the present. The woman in front of her dabs powdery foundation on her cheeks, her prior layer of make-up had been washed off when she slowly smeared a wet soapy sponge over herself. It was a horribly awkward affair and Frea commanded Aidan to look at the wall. She decided not to use the wash basin or go to the bathroom because she wasn’t sure if she’s supposed to take off her bandages, so she had stripped with the assistance of Saskia and used a sponge.

Now, she’s dressed, finally in something she’s comfortable with. She wears shorts that are usually reserved for the rare warm summer day, with a pad lining her underwear. She always hated wearing those, but she’d rather not make another bloody stain.

Frea finishes putting on her lilac jacket, lined with satin and metal buttons. “I am alright, Saskia. Thank you for assisting me, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Saskia smiles brightly, and continues dabbing her cheeks. “Think nothing of it, my Lady. I pledged my life for your family, and it is my duty to see you grow into a capable Matriarch, as I have no doubt you’ll become one.”

That makes Frea swallow thickly, but she says nothing about it. Her eyes flick to Aidan, still staring at the wall, then she looks at the series of uniforms laid on her bed.

“That will be all for now,” she says, “Can you perhaps brew some tea? I will dress him.”

Saskia makes no protest, and nods before leaving.

Now alone, she inhales heavily and straightens her back. 

“Aidan, come here.”

He does so, quickly and clearly without a second thought, keeping his gaze down as usual. For several seconds, she just looks at him. Taking him in. Wondering what’s going on in his head, if anything. Even from this angle she can see a concerned twist in his brow, or is it fear? Nervousness? 

It makes her warm, though she isn’t sure how much of that is due to her… bleeding.

She clears her throat. “Take the blanket off and put on this suit.”

When he does so, she’s suddenly reminded of the fact she hasn’t actually seen his lower half until now. Both times he had bathed and she looked away when he went into the water and she couldn’t see him when he had been submerged. She staunchly looked away when she belted him, too. 

_ Dammit. _

And, loathe as she is to admit it, it’s the first time she’s seen a man’s cock in person.

She can’t help but be immediately drawn to looking at his crotch, and she can feel her cheeks redden considerably. Frea is suddenly reminded how she’s odd in the sense she’s never slept with a man, every other woman she’s known her age loved talking about the men they’ve fucked— mostly infertile prostitutes, and the occasional chaste nobleman where they hold the fact he’s no longer a virgin over his head as a threat. 

Even with birth control and condoms, Frea had never indulged in sex. It never interested her and while she’d never admit it out loud, it scared her.  _ And _ a part of her secretly wanted her first time to be this grand, romantic fling. The possibility of that long gone, she almost greedily eats him up with her eyes. She looks at his scars, how his body was a canvas to apparently every sharp object known to man, the curves of his muscles-—

His skin is soon covered when he puts on his pants. At that moment, Frea realizes she’s been clenching her fists, and gritting her teeth. Relaxing her body, she mentally chastises herself.

_ My. You’re exactly like a bitch in heat. _

Why must everything with Aidan become endlessly complicated?

She continues to tighten her jaw, her mind going back to Aidan’s nude form without her meaning to. He’s just— dammit. He’s just so distracting, and it makes her hate herself more.

He puts on black trousers made of tussar silk, with several buttons located along the waistband that allow for the simplified use of suspenders. When Frea watches him pick up a simple long sleeved white shirt, she catches a glimpse of his back. It looks like any movement could hurt, but he makes no indication he’s in pain.

He puts on a matching black tailcoat over the shirt. She thinks this one is made of gabardine, likely with a satin lining like her own vest. The cuffs and lapel are done in accenting taffeta fabric to add an extra  _ pizazz,  _ as Marcus liked to put it. 

Finished dressing, he presents himself to Frea. Unconsciously, she licks her lips and the moment she does that she wants to slap herself on the face. He looks… dapper, alright, like every other servant in this household as this is their usual uniform. All he needs is the Valentine crest on his lapel.

Her eye twitches. She doesn’t  _ want  _ him looking like every other servant, because he’s  _ not  _ a servant. He’s something… more special, she surmises. She’s not sure if that’s the right word for it, this possessiveness she’s feeling.

Frea wants him to wear something else. Something unique. Something to show everyone else he’s  _ different.  _ Hers—

She bites her cheek.

...Her body may no longer feel like her own anymore, but his body… she owns that.  _ Control,  _ the word flies around her head again like it did on the train. The word  _ repulsive  _ is whispered in her mind, too, but it’s drowned out by the need to make Aidan wear something else.

She hates this man, she reminds herself. And yet her mind is dazed with the thought of bossing him around. Just telling him to wear something affects her more than the fucking belting.

“Take the jacket off and put that one on,” she says hoarsely.

_ <Yes, Master.> _ He signs, and a strike of heat courses through her. 

He puts on a short coat this time, that ends just above the waistline. It has a high collar with ten draped metal chain accents on the chest. He will  _ definitely  _ stand out with that one.

But it’s simply not to her tastes. “Take that off and put this one on.” 

_ <Yes, Master.> _ He replies again.

Now he wears a cavalier vest with gold accents over his white shirt. This one screams elegance, and fits well with his body and face. It has a stand-up top collar, wide sweeping lapels and five engraved metal buttons. Where on earth did Saskia get these? Are these from Marcus’ wardrobe?

Regardless of the source, the clothes fit Aidan so  _ nicely.  _ She’d even go as far as call it a tad… tight.

She likes it that way.

“That’ll do. I will get you extra pairs of those, and from now on you’ll be wearing these sets of clothes. You will only wear what I give you. Understand?”

_ <Yes, Master.> _

“...Kneel in front of me.” She licks her lips again shortly after saying that. Aidan kneels, and she says, “Look at me.”

He looks at her, and she sees his pupils dilate. They enthrall her. The glimmering colour of the emerald of his eyes seem to shine brighter than she’s ever seen him, or perhaps she’s imagining it. She doesn’t know.

She cards her hand through his hair before she can stop herself, brushing his hair to the side. He leans into the touch, and another strike of possessiveness passes through her, with an underlying feeling of irritation. She doesn’t understand that, but she can’t be bothered to think about it.

All she can think about is him, kneeling in front of her. Ah, all the women she’s had idle conversation with were right. A man really did look his best on his knees. Her hand goes from his hair to the side of his face, over his lips, to his chin, to his neck.

“You’re very handsome,” she says softly, leaning forward to bring her face closer to his. His pupils continue to dilate. “I wonder if I would have taken you in if you weren’t.”

After a moment, he shakily brings his hands forward.  _ <Thank you, Master.> _

She feels her lips tug upwards. He had said he was nineteen when he was… sold, but after seeing his body she knows he’s definitely an adult now, though she had an inkling of that when she met him in Utreau. She had thought he was her age, but now she thinks he might be older than her, but not by much, which somehow makes this whole situation even more salacious. He’s definitely not thirty, at least.

Such a sad, pitiful man. Her man, her muse. She wants to take a photo of him like this.

Aidan’s definitely someone like Remi, but he also reminds Frea of something else.

“You know,” she says, and she wonders how much she’s saying this for herself rather than for him, “There’s a legend of something called the Corpsefang. It’s a ghastly, wolfish beast that lures virginal men to their deaths in the forests. There’s a bronze statue of it in the town square, in a fountain.”

Whether or not he actually understands her is irrelevant. He looks at her with a questioning gaze, and she cups both his cheeks in her hands. She revels in the redness dotting his cheeks. She’s a repulsive woman, but she thinks she may as well embrace that fact. Her future is dead and gone, buried in a shallow grave in Utreau. Destruction is all that’s left.

She hates this man, she reminds herself once more, but now he’s the only escape from reality she has.

“It’s a good thing you’re not a virgin then, so nothing can steal you away from me.”

_ Because no one can hurt you except for me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a well known fact that patriarchy still harms men, so matriarchy would/does harm women. I've already played around this with Frea being self-conscious about her face due to her birthmarks because of this society's emphasis on ~beauty~. And now, despite being part of the most privileged class, she also struggles with bodily autonomy because mommy dearest is still in charge (and she's also just a dick), and also because of the emphasis on motherhood being the ultimate power.
> 
> Also, imagine Diana as a black Newfoundland dog.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm gonna write a whole bunch of chapters for backlog so I can update this weekly. :)
> 
> Google: I'mma about to ruin this woman's whole career.
> 
> So. I lost about 100,000 words of progress on this series. Part of me was mulling over the idea of writing ahead to have a backlog again, but I think for now at least I'll just post the chapters once they become ready. Gotta say, the progress of re-writing ain't fun at all. Especially Aidan's POV. He's such a different character from where I was in the story that basically regressing back to this point was just frustrating, tbh. Really difficult to get into the groove of his headspace again but you gotta do what you gotta do. I just hope this chapter flows somewhat well.

When Frea awakes it feels as though there is binding on her limbs and around her neck. She can’t—  _ move.  _ Or speak. Or even see anything, everything around her is blurry like an unfocused photograph. There is a fleeting moment when she feels whole again but it evaporates faster than summer rain off the burnt Utritian soil.

Her eyelids are drooping and leaden with sleep despite her desperation to become fully awake. She can’t process anything, and a sudden bout of panic takes as her heart tries to escape through her throat at the first chance it can get. But even then, her body refuses to move.

“It may take her a couple of hours to fully awaken from the anesthetic. I know you want to discuss her future recovery in your office, but I’d like to stay here to monitor her for now. Wouldn’t want her to have a sudden reaction to something while I’m not here.” Someone says above her, the voice is strangely… bubbly in a way, and vaguely familiar sounding.

The voice continues.

“I’ve removed the dead tissue and smoothed uneven areas of the bone, as well as sealed off blood vessels and nerves. I’ve also cut the muscles to alter the shape of her stumps so that once she tries on her prosthesis she’ll fit in comfortably. I must say, whoever worked on her before did a phenomenal job with what I assume were limited equipment.”   
  


Mother’s voice soon fills the air, and Frea feels a spike of anxiety.

“How soon will she be able to wear her prosthesis?”

There’s a laugh, and Frea can just imagine the other individual wagging her finger at mother. “Now, now Damaris, I know you of all people know how vital it is to have patience. It will be three months minimum before she can try anything on— she needs to heal! After then, every couple of months she’ll be re-fitted with a new prosthesis as her stumps change shape.”

Mother hums.

Frea wishes she were still unconscious.

Though, her panic slowly begins to subside as her mind understands the situation. There’s only one person that would call mother by her first name and playfully chide her— Dr. Kippe, their family doctor. Frea isn’t sure when was the last time she saw the woman, but Dr. Kippe’s demeanor always exuded a comfortable warmth.

The world is still unfocused, and yet things gradually become clearer. Frea wonders how long her surgery was, and if she’d been out for the entire day.

Dr. Kippe speaks again.

“For the first three to seven days she’ll need to learn pain control and about her future medication. I’ll provide a detailed outline for both you and Frea, and while I’ll be visiting her everyday to make sure she’s alright I won’t be here every hour of the day. It’s vital that you monitor her medication intake. Luckily Saskia is a trained nurse, so I have full confidence in her abilities to take care of her.” Frea can hear a pencil writing on a notepad, “Additionally, she’ll need to keep her muscles healthy. I’ve been made aware she’s been doing stretching and I recommend she continue doing so. She should also learn how to safely transfer between her bed and other surfaces, and that’s where her wheelchair will come in.

“She can learn to move to her chair, as well as strengthen her arms and upper body when she moves with it. Two birds with one stone, wouldn’t you say?” Her smile is evident in her voice, “I won’t burden you or her with the responsibility of taking care of her wounds. I, Saskia, and any other nurses and physicians will be in charge of that. You focus on getting her to learn how to manage daily life again, hmm?”

Mother doesn’t make a verbal response, but Frea assumes she nods as Dr. Kippe continues with a softer voice.

“Recovery from a double amputation like this is a gradual, collaborative process, Damaris. I’m sure you already know it’s going to be a challenge. It’s imperative you move her safely at all times to prevent her falling. If she falls on her stump she may need another surgery. And…” There’s a sound of a footstep, and presumably Dr. Kippe touches mother’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I’ve heard time and time again that people report feeling phantom pain, and time and time again I’ve heard people dismiss them. I’ve spoken with nurses who have the gall to call patients whiny!” She huffs, “I won’t have it! If she feels as though her limbs are still there, have her perform exercises in front of a mirror so you can essentially remind her brain she doesn’t have her feet anymore. I know phantom pain is a relatively new phenomena with the sudden intake of amputees filling the hospitals following the war, but I assure you it’s real. Ignore the naysayers.”

There’s a beat of silence before mother replies. “Some say that the returning soldiers are… not the same. They come back home different with diseased minds, apparently.”

Frea feels the judicial eye of her mother, and she’d squirm under the heavy stare if she were able.

“Everyone goes through a variety of different emotions during a process such as this,” Dr. Kippe says, “Talking to someone who is trained to listen and support you, may make it easier to understand and cope with your feelings and concerns. I’m sure I can connect both you and Frea with a counselor or—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Another bout of silence blankets over them. Frea hadn’t realized she was keeping her eyes closed, but she keeps doing it lest she want to begin breaking out in a cold sweat.

“...Damaris, I know… That this is new, and hard to digest. But if it is my opinion that the mind can break like the body and it needs to be its own recognized medical field. I hope to bring my research to the Empress’ attention so that we can allocate better funding to help those with mental trauma—”

Mother’s cane taps the floor.

“Are you insinuating that the Holy Mother would make our mind— our most powerful weapon— so fragile that it would break from merely getting injured?”

There is no change in mother’s voice or tone, as it’s impassive as it always is, and yet the growing tension is palpable. There’s something of an underlying threat beneath those words, a potential coming of a storm. 

Dr. Kippe, likely due to her long lasting… Frea isn’t sure if she’d call a friendship, but there’s definitely some type of relationship there. Regardless, Dr. Kippe isn’t cowed probably because she knows mother better than Frea.

The doctor sighs. “You yourself know the mind is easily malleable. What you did to the Utritian prisoners—”

“They are Utritians and they are  _ weak.”  _ Mother’s words are like a knife in the air. Oh, Acadia, why do they have to have this conversation with Frea just lying there? She wants to crawl away and wallow in her own self-pity. Mother continues speaking, the air becoming cold as ice. “If the mind is like the body then it can be healed. Our soldiers are going through episodes that will pass and this…”

She’s probably flippantly waving her hand.

“This shell shock or whatever it is they call it, is a deficiency and not found in strong units. It is an underlying lack of character. A sign of cowardice. Those who continue to exhibit such symptoms even after being looked at a medical professional are not worthy of being a part of the Asnainian army. Their minds are weak like a man’s— it’s insulting to Acadia.”

Gradually, with each utterance, Frea throat begins to feel drier. She has the distinct feeling that mother is speaking to her, though at the same time she feels like she’s not even in the same room as the two older women.

“...Very well,” Dr. Kippe concedes, a twinge of frustration evident in her voice “Let’s continue to discuss her physical therapy, then.”

Frea finds herself falling asleep soon after that small argument, shame blossoming in her stomach. She’s accepted that she’s weak, but to be constantly reminded of the very fact continues to make her upset. Perhaps that, too, is another sign of her fragility.

Her body begins to feel heavier than before, and random images seem to float aimlessly around in the pool of her thoughts. 

Briefly, she wonders where Aidan is.

* * *

It is a small miracle that she sleeps without dreams. She wakes with a sigh, reluctant to be free of the anesthetic and therefore fully aware of everything. Though, perhaps she’s been blessed with another small miracle— the dimness of her room tells her the day is ending.

Hopefully that means she can avoid any discussion with her mother.

“Good evening, my Lady.” Frea turns her head to see Saskia sitting next to her bed with a newspaper in her hands. She’s wearing her usual work attire, though she’s let her hair down, her dark and greying wavy locks running across her shoulders like a river. 

Saskia smiles warmly. “Dr. Kippe kept an eye on you all day, and now it’s my turn. Please do tell me if you feel any sort of pain whatsoever. Oh! But don’t worry, it won’t be as though you won’t have any privacy. For the time being I shall be sleeping in the room next to yours, so should you require any assistance please call for me.”

Frea nods mutely, lifting herself to a sitting position with an undignified grunt. Immediately, there’s a light prickling sensation in her stumps.

She ignores it.

Her attention soon falls on a plate of rice and chicken with a side of fresh herbs, still steaming. Saskia brings the plate towards her, and Frea immediately begins to salivate at the smell. 

“You’ve been asleep for the whole day. It’s high time you get some nutrition in that small body of yours, my Lady.” She says with a smile.

She wants to happily indulge herself, goddess does she, but similar to the consistency of butter, the thoughts in her head melt away with so much as every discombobulated sound of a soft, tap, tap, tap, that enters her ears. It’s raining outside, and she focuses perhaps too much on the noise.

Mother’s voice and what she said begins invading her mind.

“Do you think people’s minds can be diseased?” Frea asks, eyes still on her food as she pokes at it with a fork.

“...I think people need time to heal, my Lady.”

Frea sighs. It feels… strange being awake and fully conscious again. Surreal. Like she’s floating on a cloud. Like she doesn’t belong in her own body.

The prickly sensation on her stumps flare up, and she’s overwhelmed with the desire to rip her skin off.

She opts to grit her teeth and scowl at her rice.  _ Weak. Repulsive. _

Before she can begin mulling over the consequences of flinging her plate to the ground and throwing another crying fit, Saskia’s voice takes her out of her quickly growing tumultuous thoughts. When she lifts her head, she finally sees him.

Aidan. In the corner of the room, kneeling and with those big pleading eyes. When their eyes meet he looks as though he’s on the verge of crying and stands, though almost instantly his knees buckle. It’s like he’s unsure if he’s even allowed to stand. 

“As a new servant, he’ll naturally be staying in the servant’s quarters.” Saskia says, “Him spending every waking moment in your room is fairly uncouth. Additionally, I’ve been tasked to teach him Asnainian.”

“What has he done the entire day while I was having my surgery?”

“Kneeling here and shaking like a mouse.” Her voice is filled with pity, “It’s why I think it prudent that he get his own sleeping arrangements.”

Staring at Aidan’s almost trembling form, images of his vulnerable and nude body fly through her thoughts. A warmth spreads through her, though it’s underlined with something else.

Growing irritation.

“So he'll be spending time with you a lot then. Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate,” she says stiffly, feeling exceptionally uncomfortable where she sits. 

“Aha, these tasks are simply my way of relieving your mother. Think nothing of it, it’s what I am here for,” Saskia replies smoothly, “It shouldn’t be too difficult to teach him Asnainian as it shares some similarities with Utritian. Additionally, as a servant, he’ll need to begin earning his keep. Does he cook? Clean?”

Aidan still looks like he’s fighting an internal battle on whether to stand or sit with how his knees are slightly bent now. Frea would find it comical if she weren’t currently waging her own war with her conflicting emotions.

“...Can you cook?” She asks in Utritian.

In an instant, his face lights up. His lips tugs upwards and she sees dimples crinkle on his cheeks— which… may be the first time she’s ever seen him this elated. It makes her grit her teeth.

How dare he smile like that after everything he’s done to her. He doesn’t have the fucking  _ right. _

His hands fly as his gropes for words, signing a few things that Frea isn’t able to read because he moves too quickly, though she does catch his  _ <Yes!> _ from the start.

Apparently sensing this, Saskia gets the book of sign language which Frea begrudgingly accepts.

“Go slower, Aidan.”   
  


She doesn’t miss the second of pure mortification that washes over his face. He moves slower, muscles filled with a sudden bout of tension, and smile gone. Though there’s still a bit of eagerness to please her, his  _ fear  _ makes her warmer.

Frea has to flip through a lot of pages to fully understand Aidan.

_ <I can cook many things, master. Rice, eggs, chicken, lamb, turkey, shakshuka, couscous, mirza—> _

Finding that she’s quickly becoming unsure if she’s even reading him right due her being utterly unaware if something like ‘shakshuka’ even exists, Frea puts her hand up to tell him to stop. Aidan freezes, wringing his hands together nervously.

Frea switches to Asnainian. “He can cook.”

“Excellent. Then he shall be in charge of doing some of your meals. Only once I’ve deemed him to be trustworthy in the kitchen, of course.”

Frea makes a non-committal response and returns to glaring at her rice as she silently begins to eat. She can’t quite tolerate looking at Aidan right now. Maybe it’s because of the anesthesia. Maybe it’s because of her menstruation. Maybe it’s because of her inherent and multiple weaknesses, but now she just feels exhausted again.

One thing she does know is that she’s beginning to dislike it when there’s someone other than Aidan in the same room as her.

Her mind is such an ugly thing.

* * *

Smoke particles dance around Frea’s room, layering the tongue with a woody fragrance. It's a familiar smell of incense, one that should bring happy memories, but instead she feels antsy and uncomfortable. It may as well be her permanent state of being— constantly thinking of how little her life means now. It weighs her down, and Frea wonders how long she can bear it.

At least, she surmises that Marcus’ booming voice keeps her thoroughly distracted.

“Happy Mimir Sabbath!” 

On a small oaken tea cart lies a platter of sweet bread, quiche, and strawberry pieces along with dainty and fragile looking cups that Frea is always too afraid to use because she thinks they’d shatter in her hands the moment she would pick them up. Honestly, she’s impressed how easy Marcus makes tea time look. Everything on the cart is placed with the intent to create a sense of cohesion. Even the tea cups and plates were picked precisely with a specific purpose— to fit a certain colour scheme as well as a theme. The strawberries are placed closest to her so she can have them as an appetizer, then it’s the quiche, then it’s the sweet bread that’s next to the tea. Neat and tidy, but also efficient and artistic.

Frea supposes that’re his years of etiquette lessons at work.

It’s also a bit of a show with how he pours in the tea, raising the pot above his head so that the caylon drink lands in the cup in a long stream. If Frea tried the same thing she’d probably miss the cup entirely. He follows the tea by pouring in some warm milk.

Beside him, Diana sits with rapt attention in her big, brown eyes, her tail thumping on the floor. Saskia is there, too, though she does paperwork on a desk on the other side of the room.

Ordinarily they’d have tea in the gazebo in the backyard, right next to Marcus’ aviary.

“It’s ceylon uva! Doesn’t it smell like roses? Ah, it fits so nicely with the incense, no? It’s the most bitter and acidic among the ceylon teas, so it has such a wonderfully stimulating and rich flavour. Perfect for such a beautiful morning.” Marcus’ boisterous voice seems to be compensating for something. 

Maybe it has to do with Nathaniel sitting next to him.

Her other elder brother sits with a hunched back and picks at his fingers. His brown hair has grown longer since she saw him last, his fringe long enough to cover one of his eyes. His head is slightly tilted to the right, but that’s usually how he sits. 

Frea smiles wryly as Marcus hands her a tea cup. “It’s good to finally see you again, Nathaniel. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Mhm.” He keeps his gaze downwards, “I read in a book that pain is a sign that you are well.”

Marcus’ shoulders jolt and he almost spills his drink, then he loudly tuts. “Nathaniel! None of that, remember?” He says with a strained smile, moving to lightly slap him on the shoulder before deciding against it.

Nathaniel blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”

The eldest of the trio, probably in an attempt to save face, decides to change the subject. Marcus claps his hands together lightly,  _ “Anyway,  _ it’s Mimir Sabbath! In preparation on this auspicious day Nathaniel and I went out and bought some food, didn’t we?”

“Mhm. I didn’t really do much.” He shrugs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Marcus tuts again. “You went out, you were active, and spoke with some people! Didn’t you? So that our dear sister wouldn’t have to worry about you,  _ hmm?” _

“Not really. I hid behind a tree and you did all the talking.”

“Ugh!” Seemingly giving up, Marcus throws his hands up with an exasperated expression. “Remind me never to try something with you ever again. Though I suppose getting you out of your room is a small miracle as is.”

“I wanted to see Frey-Frey,” Nathaniel murmurs, and one of his hands begins playing with his fringe hair. Frea doesn’t miss how his eyes flick to where her feet would normally be. His gaze additionally moves towards a certain someone who’s also in the room, but that’s not important right now.

Her lips curl in a forced smile. “Have you read any books since I’ve been gone?”

“Twenty-two.” Nathaniel begins counting on his fingers, “I read one story where a man tried traveling the world. He lost everything and got married. Then there was another story about a poor man who wanted to go into theatre. He got married instead. There was a book about a man who wanted to be a famous musician, and he married his teacher.” He continues to prattle on more plotlines, all of which involve the man getting a spouse in the end.

“I dunno.” He shrugs, “I kinda wanna read something that ends differently for once. Maybe I should write my own book.”

Frea chortles lightly. Admittedly, he always says that, but while reading is considered a respectable hobby for men, writing is not. Not that Nathaniel seems to really care about that fact, considering how aloof he is with his peers.

Marcus takes the moment to interject.

“Oh, don’t be so querulous, Nathaniel! Those are such wonderfully imaginative tales. I especially adore  _ The Candlelight Bargain,”  _ He sighs dreamily, “To have such a whirlwind of a romance! Ah, a man could only dream!”

“Arranged marriages don’t really lend themselves to romances like that, though.” Nathaniel says blankly.

Momentarily, Marcus’ lips twitch downwards. He tuts,  _ again,  _ “Now, now. Don’t be _ rude.” _

When Frea reaches forward to take a sweet bread, Diana noisily licks her lips. The dog watches her with an unblinking stare but she pays the animal no mind.

“And how’s your painting endeavours been going, Nathaniel?”

“I got started on thirteen canvases. I haven’t finished anything, so you’re not allowed to see them. I think I’m gonna go draw some of the new birds Marcus got for the aviary.”

The man in question happily interjects again.

“Frey-Frey, you simply must come to the aviary as soon as you’re able! I got two more flightless birds from the Southern Isles. They’re quite adorable and,” he leans in conspiratorially, “Mysterious. One is the Feathered Scarf, you know, the ones that wrap their tails around people’s necks? Their tails are about three times the length of their body so they hang off branches. The other is the Scarlet Windwhistlers and they make the most gorgeous of sounds!”

He leans back with a wide smile. “Whenever I am wed, I do hope my wife will take me to the Southern Isles. It must be such a lovely and exotic place to visit. Lately, I find myself badgering Saskia to tell me more of her hometown, hehe.”

At this point, Frea can’t quite resist Diana’s expert begging techniques, so she gives the dog a small bit of sweet bread. There’s a sound of creaking floorboards for a split-second and the three of them all react to it by looking at the source of the noise.

There’s really no more ignoring Aidan now.

Marcus makes a theatrical display by patting at an empty chair he brought with him. Frea knew this was coming eventually, as the man wouldn’t have brought three seats with him otherwise. Still, a part of her was almost hoping he’d just somehow forget about it.

“Come now, Aidan! Take a seat. Do you know of the Mimir Sabbath? It’s a wonderful holiday.” Marcus titters on, turning to Frea expectantly.

Her eye twitch as she speaks in Utritian. “Come sit here, Aidan.”

His eyes catches her’s fleetingly before looking away. He takes a step, though it’s incredibly hesitant as he looks at something else.

Diana.

Evidently, Marcus notices this and slips off his chair to embrace Diana. The dog responds by thumping her tail on the floor in quick succession, and she begins slobbering kisses on Marcus’ cheek.

“See! She’s as harmless as a fly, and much cuter!” Despite his words probably being utterly incomprehensible to Aidan, he gets the message. While his hesitancy isn’t fully abated, he’s eventually able to take a seat next to Marcus. Though he does flinch his arm in front of him when Diana turns her big, drooling face at him.

Marcus smiles softly as he returns to speaking to Aidan. “Mimir Sabbath is a celebration of Mimir, goddess of knowledge. All the scholars love her because she’s almost as important as Acadia, hehe. People who go to university are often called Mimirians!”

Commoners generally hold massive feasts during this day, while the nobility indulge in more ‘refined’ activities like reciting poetry or listening to classical music. Neither of which they’re doing right now, but Frea isn’t about to mention that. Admittedly, reciting old poetry is one of her least favourite things to do.

Marcus looks at her again, and she feels her jaw tense.

Everything suddenly feels— Warped. Her head begins to throb and every part of her body has a dull ache, she feels like she could physically shatter apart like a dropped mug. It’s like she’s being stabbed with needles, or maybe a knife. Like someone is stitching her back together while she’s still awake.

Her mind goes back to Utreau.

Her mind thinks back to her declaration, something she has gone back on time and time again.

_ “Your life belongs to me now.” _

_ Mine,  _ a voice calls out in her head. It’s her own voice, but it cackles with… glee. It’s something filled with mockery.  _ Mine, mine, mine. No one else’s.  _

_ You’re so repulsive. Hideous, too.  _

_ Weak. _

Her mind begins listing off a deluge of other insults, and she has to stop herself from flinching.

And yet he sits there with them. Marcus wants to speak with  _ him.  _ Why? Why would anyone speak with him? And willingly? The  _ gall, _ the absolute fucking gall of everyone in this house. How could anyone do this to her? He’s— He’s—

The only thing she sees when she blinks are her severed legs.

Acadia, her head feels like it’s going to fucking  _ explode. _

“Just nod.” She says in Utritian, voice strained and low. “And have a strawberry. Or two. I don’t care.”

Aidan blinks owlishly, but does as commanded. His bafflement is evident, and when he nibbles on a strawberry piece he almost seems to gag, which then makes Frea briefly wonder if Utreau just doesn’t grow strawberries of all things.

“This little holiday only lasts a day. Personally, I’m far more excited for the Martyr’s Festival! It’ll be so grand. It’s a week of celebration where the walls between the nobility and commoners are invisible. We all come together with parades and fireworks! It’s such a joy.” Marcus cooes, gesticulating wildly in an attempt to illustrate a firework. “Ooooh! It’s in about four months,” he turns to Frea, “I’m sure you’ll be right as rain by then!”

“Pretend you’re listening and continue nodding.” Frea says, before adding, “You will be learning Asnainian from Saskia. And you’ll also begin having your sleeping quarters, and perhaps cooking soon.”

From the corner of her eyes she thinks she sees Nathaniel lift his head up, though when she glances at him she sees him looking back down at his hands.

Marcus continues to speak of more holidays, voice as boisterous as usual but it’s clear that Nathaniel is beginning to become slightly miffed by the noise with his expression becoming a small grimace every time his brother raises his voice excitably. 

“During the new year we celebrate, well, so many things!  The end of the year, the beginning of the next year, the prosperity of the empire, and the divine ascension of the first Empress, Acadia’s eternal love, among others! It’s by far the largest festival we have, and in Accashire they have a military parade presided by the Empress that ends with a mass in Asnain’s largest cathedral. It’s quite the sight, I hope you get to see it one day!”

Marcus sets his hands to his hands and puffs out his chest like a proud bird. “And something men and children like to do in the morning of the new year is make some paper cranes in honour of Theodosia.” His eyes become wider as an idea clearly plants itself in his mind. “Allow me to show you!”

When he stands to grab some nearby paper, the movement excites Diana. She joins Marcus with a hop of her paws, and lets out a single eager bark.

Nathaniel’s reaction is instantaneous. The legs of his chair screech as they suddenly move on the floor when he stands quickly, his expression pinched in a tight and annoyed scowl.

“Ugh. You’re all way too loud. I’m going to the aviary to draw.”

When he sets out to leave, Diana happily trots by next to him. Nathaniel lifts his arms up so that the dog doesn’t graze his hands. He pouts, and mutters a soft ‘shoo’ to no avail. Diana isn’t a lady who gives up easily. She’ll get her pets one way or another, even if it’s from Nathaniel.

Frea glances to Saskia, who wears a knowing smile as if to say  _ ‘I’ll send someone to check up on him later.’ _

The normalcy of it all is almost enough to make her grin softly.

But when she looks back at Aidan whatever emotions she had just felt become a hurricane. 

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Marcus says, handing Aidan a piece of paper. “He’s always a bit moody.”

All at once, Frea feels that familiar pang of growing irritation hit her again. Whenever she feels anything akin to a reprieve Aidan is there to remind her of…  _ everything.  _ Tersely, her gaze flicks to the clock on the wall. This whole little tea-party is a prelude to her getting a check-up from Dr. Kippe. She’ll begin physical therapy and everything else that renews her status as a dirty cripple. Mother will look at her like she’s nothing. Nothing her brothers may do will take away the horrible reality of everything.

She wants to control Aidan. And yet he reminds her of her cage.

She clenches the bedsheets and her throat begins to feel dry. She wants to have a tantrum and beat her hands on the ground like a toddler. She wants to be  _ cruel.  _ She wants to beat this fucker with a belt again. She wants him to hurt like she does.

Instead, she heaves a laboured sigh. “Nathaniel is moody. Don’t mind him. Just follow what Marcus does with the paper.”

She doesn’t watch Aidan fumble around with the paper with growing confusion. Looking to her side, she sees the newspaper Saskia was reading. It’s last month’s paper, and in bold words are the headline  _ “After grief, comes rebirth. After death, comes life. After life, comes beauty.”  _ with a photo of a soldier’s helmet on a tombstone.

Frea doesn’t want anyone speaking with Aidan. But she also doesn’t want anything to do with him at this moment. There’s— so much happening in her head, and she can feel the fear in her chest waiting to take over.

Her desire for a distraction wins out, and she flips to a random page.

_ On the Ides of Imiss, Silver Oak Academy announced that it will begin accepting male applicants. It will be restricted to 10% of total admissions, with married men prohibited from applying. In another landmark decision, President Alvarez of the Republic of Anavelle additionally decreed that men can now vote during elections. _

_ While Asnain is a monarchy, there has been concern about how the Republic’s radical new reforms may affect our country.  _

_ “The mission of men is to minister in the home,” Matriarch Valentine, speaking on behalf of Arch Priestess Alystin of Lullin said during a meeting in Empress Euphrasia’s Royal Court, “I am no friend to male suffrage. The Republic is making a mistake. Politics are a feminine affair, on which a man could have no opinions of any value.” _

Frea quickly closes the newspaper. She wanted one damn second to take her mind off literally anything, and then she reads about her mother of all people. 

It just reminds her of  _ everything.  _ How she has disappointed mother in everything she’s ever done.

She sits, anxious, irritated and miserable. She ignores the dull ache in her legs. She ignores how there seems to be a voice laughing in the back of her head.

In the end, Aidan isn’t very successful in folding a paper crane.

* * *

She sees Esme again the next day. 

Frea is in the midst of moving her legs in circles— being monitored by a nurse she doesn’t remember the name of while Saskia essentially reads out an Utritian-Asnainian dictionary to Aidan in the corner of the room— when the door creaks open and mother enters. Frea tenses instinctively, and the nurse gives a single respectful nod when she leaves.

Then Esme enters and Frea feels like she needs to remember how to breathe again. Aidan seems to be affected the same way with how his eyes blow wide, he looks as though he’s about to stand up but he stops himself, eyes nervously but almost excitably peering between her and Esme. His body practically vibrates with unreleased energy, and it’s clear he just wants to go to the older woman.

That doesn’t happen, because he’s escorted outside by Saskia. His eyes never leave Esme’s prone form, his brows furrowing in a look of worry when the door closes.

Now it’s just her, Esme, mother, and two guards.

And there’s an unbearably awkward tension. Esme practically exudes nothing but exhaustion. There're bags under her haggard eyes, and Frea notes this is the first time she’s seen the woman out of her military uniform. She wears a plain and frayed black vest with white pants, which is a far cry from mother's ornate black and red tailcoat.

Frea uses all her mental fortitude in an attempt to keep calm, but she’s not very successful at it. The air is so brittle it could snap.

“Es—” Frea starts, but mother’s cane taps the floor and it all happens at once. Like a puppet cut from its strings, Esme kneels directly on the ground and bows to prostrate herself while touching her head to the floor.

Frea’s heart jumps into her throat.

“I greviously neglected my duties as your general. It was my responsibility to properly alert you of the dangers in the area, and my failure to protect you will haunt me for the rest of my life. I had become too relaxed because the fighting had ended months ago. That was a mistake.” It’s like Esme is reading off of a script, though the wobbly tone of her voice tells Frea her grief is genuine. 

Suddenly it feels harder to focus. Frea lets out a slow, controlled breath in an attempt to compose herself as the woman she once viewed as the picture of calm and collected authority continues to grovel on the floor.

Mother’s stern eyes don't leave Esme’s pitiful looking body.

“Nothing I say or do will ever repair the damage that has been done, but know that I will work every waking moment so that one day I may earn your forgiveness, forgiveness that I know I am unworthy of.”

Mother takes note of nails, “Are you satisfied, Frea?”

She opens her mouth, then closes, then opens it again. How does one even respond to this? Does she simply say yes? What happens if she says no? She doesn’t know what in the world she feels. She thinks… She thinks she  _ should  _ be angry at Esme, since she was her superior. She was absolutely Esme’s responsibility. But… with all this… she just wants to  _ talk.  _ To just— To just catch up. To do something that isn’t this.

Frea’s mind feels muddled.

She feels emotionally bankrupt. There is nothing left to feel, nothing left to say, nothing left but the void that envelops her mind in swirling blackness.

_ It’s Esme’s fault. _

It is, it is, it is— she should be fucking cackling at how pathetic her ex-general looks. She should take some type of revenge. It’s her fault. It’s her fault. It’s her fault.

Apathy washes over her like heavy water, holding Frea to the ground and only letting some of the sunlight in. Under the blue there is nothing else that matters, nothing significantly worthy of her time. Everything she does gets undone. She can only hear the echoes of past voices in her mind, and sometimes it's hard to breathe, but the rest of the world doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters right now for Frea.

She just feels the beating of her heart; nothing less, nothing more.

Frea knows her ire is only reserved for Aidan. Anger… fury… hatred, she only truly feels it with  _ him.  _ Because she’s still disgustingly powerless here, even when Esme is like this.

So she nods mutely at mother’s question.

With a flick of the wrist, mother issues a silent command at the guards. They hoist a haggard looking Esme off the ground, and lead her out of the room.

“We’ll discuss more about the current state of affairs in my office.” Mother says curtly to Esme, and now it’s her and Frea in the stifling room.

This room is like a dark void.

Hoping to dispel literally any amount of tension she’s currently feeling, Frea inhales deeply through her nose. Her voice is soft, really she sounds as pathetic as the entire display she just witnessed. 

“You… You didn’t have to humiliate her like that…”

“I assure you, she deserved such and much more. I’m being courteous.” 

Frea purses her lips into a thin line. “What else will you do with her?”

Mother is back to inspecting her nails with a look of disinterest. “She has had her military rank stripped from her, and her name will be expunged from any records within the Royal Court’s libraries. Truthfully, I shall take this as a wake-up call. For our military to become so lax to allow this woman into its ranks is quite deplorable. I shall need to bring this to the Empress’ attention upon our next meeting.” She lazily flicks her hand. “But you needn’t concern yourself over such matters. Focus on recovering.”

Then— Frea is hit with it all at once. There’s a sudden strike of pain that hits her stumps and then courses throughout her body, and her mind already clamouring for the relief to come. She grits her teeth, exhaling sharply and the sound that comes out of her is something akin to a growl.

More than anything, she feels irritation rising up. A different kind from when she sees Aidan. Something that’s been festering for some time now.

_ “I’m  _ the one who got her fucking legs blown off,” she grits out, and there’s a ringing in her ears, “Everything you do with Esme concerns me. It concerns me a lot.”

For a split-second mother’s entire body pauses, then she folds her arms tightly over her freshly ironed uniform. The two of them lock eyes, and while her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, mother’s gaze feels like an act of violence, a glare to stop Frea’s heart. His eyes are hard-rimmed and fixed, so much so that it is as if she is no longer able to move her eyeballs, like they have rusted into place.

That sudden bout of courage— or stupidity— is sucked away as Frea visibly wilts under mother’s stare.

“...I’m sorry,” she mutters, feeling like she’s in a void again.

Mother then acts as though the little staring contest never happened.

“She doesn’t deserve being called a Matriarch, so I shall deign to call her Esme. She insists that she visit you and the Utritian regularly to continue her attempt to earn your forgiveness. I suppose it’s a commendable effort Acadia would approve of.” Mother turns and begins to walk towards the door, “I shall decide whether she’ll be granted the privilege later tonight. I have much to think about.”

She grabs a hold of the door handle and speaks her final words before leaving the room.

“I do hope that you will stop trying to create an argument with me every time I visit. It’s quite unbecoming.”

Mother leaves, and the nurse re-enters as Frea stares blankly at the wall.

She finds she can’t put much effort in her physical exercises after that.

* * *

Aidan can still occasionally feel a sting on his back when he moves. But it’s such a minor sensation in comparison to the murky waters of his mind. He shouldn’t be here. He should be with Master. With  _ Esme.  _ Oh, when he saw her again he thought he may have been dreaming without realizing it. She was familiar, yet unfamiliar. The steps that he heard entering the room were… different. Esme has a more cautious pace from what he remembers. Like she’s approaching a frightened animal. Those steps he heard today instead had a curtness to them.

It was a quickness he recognized. Those types of steps usually precede a punishment for him. At least, that’s what it was like with Dark Hair.

It scared him. But now he’s scared  _ for _ Esme. She didn’t look right. She looked tired. He hopes she’s alright. He doesn’t know why Saskia led him away. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see Esme.

_ What you want doesn’t matter. _

A dull, heavy feeling cements itself in his chest as Dark Hair’s voice reverberates in the back of his skull and he looks around where he is, and the current reality settles firmly within.

He shouldn’t mull over such thoughts. He shouldn’t even think in general. His only purpose is pleasing Master. 

A hit would set him straight. Master’s belting wasn’t enough. A smack over his head is something to center himself with, to recollect his thoughts and stop thinking of pointless things. Punishments keep him in line. They remind him who he is. Punishments work.

He’s such a bad slave.

But now he has an opportunity to be good.

Because he’s in a kitchen.

The kitchen tiles are a rich warm cream, the kind of hue that is soothing in its gentleness. Aidan can already feel himself calming because this is…  _ familiar.  _ This is somewhere where he belongs. Because he can be useful. He can finally do something he’s meant to be doing. He can do something that’ll make up for his disgraceful performance thus far.

There are tremors quaking in his hands. Both from excitement and nervousness. He hopes he doesn’t do anything wrong.

He shifts on his feet, nibbling on his lower lip as he glances at Saskia, noting that there’s guards in the kitchen now who watch him. He’s not quite sure what to think of the woman. She mainly just reads Asnainian to him. He thinks he’s getting some words. For some reason, she almost reminds him a bit of Esme.

He thinks she’s a poor substitute for Esme. He’d rather have her.

_ Ah,  _ he thinks idly. That was rude. He should be slapped for such a daring and pointless thought.

The woman nods at him, perhaps giving him her consent to begin cooking something. She moves to bring out a chopping board, and sets some cutlery to the side along with bowls and other instruments. Then she takes out a slice of meat, a bag of rice, some herbs, spices and a slew of other food items. Therein lies another issue. He’s not entirely sure what to make.

Saskia doesn’t give him further instruction. He vaguely remembers she had given Master a dish of rice and chicken the day prior… Maybe...

Therefore, Aidan can only assume this is some sort of test. 

So he has to succeed in it. He has to be good. Maybe if he’s good for Master, he can be good for Esme, too. He has to make something everyone can enjoy. Something safe. But if he goes safe, will the food be disappointing? Boring? Should he do something more… exciting? What if he messes up?

He breathes heavily.

It doesn’t take long for him to get into a recognizable rhythm. It comes to him quickly and easily— the memories of cooking. It’s been so long since he’s done this, and yet his hands move on their own. Like he was born for this one, singular moment. His worry for Esme gradually subsides the more he immerses himself in his domestic role.

This is where he belongs. Here, and by Master’s side.

It grounds him.

He keeps gazing back towards Saskia every time he reaches for something, asking for permission with his eyes. She nods every time, sometimes with a smile twitching at her lips. When he accidentally drops a piece of potato on the floor and tenses, Saskia merely chuckles. The more she stands there and watches him fumble, the less intimidated he feels.

Still, he can’t become careless. He has to pass this test and make Master happy with his food.

He tries not to remember a time he cooked for Dark Hair. She was drinking, and became irate when she tried his food, so she threw it at all the wall and forced him to clean it up before locking him in the basement for the rest of the day.

The thought makes his fingers shake, but he ignores it. Only Master is important now. Only her comfort and desires. If she doesn’t like his food, well, that’ll just be further proof of what a poor slave he is, and he’ll beg for his punishment.

The sounds of him chopping the meat and vegetables fill the air. He becomes so focused on it, that he doesn’t notice a series of footsteps enter the kitchen.

Aidan intends to glance at Saskia again when he sees Esme.

Everything seems to freeze. The knife slips out of his hands and lands on the chopping board. Aidan forgets how to breathe, and his eyes instantly begin to feel far too moist. Esme is just…  _ there.  _ She’s here! Right now! But why? Wasn’t she just with Master?

All the memories of this woman come flooding in his head. 

He’s suddenly intensely aware of how much he misses her.

Aidan cannot quell his heart. The hollow pain in his chest that he has become far too acquainted with resurfaces with a wince, and a constant drumming assaults his eardrums.

Her face is tight, but the corner of Esme’s lips twitch upwards, her eyes swimming with a look of concern. She moves her hands, and there’s less uncertainty in her signing than he’s used. She’s practiced, he thinks, and he understands her greeting clearly. 

_ <Hey, kid.> _

He moves before he can think of anything else.

Aidan runs into her with a hug. Esme makes a noise of surprise, but within seconds she returns the embrace and wraps her strong arms around his shoulders. It’s warm he realizes soon after. Comfortable. He can’t remember the last time he hugged someone like this. Images of father filter through his mind, and he has to bite down a strangled sob. He lets his body sag, his muscles becoming loose.

Then his body tenses all at once. To act in such a manner is unthinkable. Disrespectful. If he had a voice, he would have no defense for acting like this without Master’s explicit consent.

_ Stupid slave. _

He moves back with hasty steps, breath hitching. He doesn’t know how to apologize for being so rude. Maybe he should bow his head, basically beckon with his body to beg for a punishment. He doesn’t know what to do. And yet, his mind wars at him. A part of him wants to beg, and another wants… to do nothing at all. A part of him, a selfish and stupid part, tells him he did  _ nothing  _ wrong.

How ludicrous. He should be belted for the thought.

There’s silence for a few moments. As if Esme is ruminating over what she’s going to do with him, but… her smile widens. She looks… less tired all of a sudden, but still forlorn, and her hand moves downwards and Aidan follows where it goes.

Then he realizes the big black dog is sitting next to Esme and looking directly at him. Esme’s hand pats the dog on the head, and then she moves her hands to sign.

_ <Friendly.> _

Aidan blinks. Then he blinks again. Oh. Does she think he moved back because of the animal?

...Are people showing him she’s harmless going to become a pattern? Somehow, it makes him feel a little stupid.

Esme takes a step forward, taking a small piece of meat he had cut. The dog— did Master mention her name? Diana? He’s not sure— begins wagging her tail and licks her lips. Esme gives Diana the meat, then looks back at Aidan with a knowing smile.

He’s unsure of what to do next. Perhaps noticing this, she lightly grabs his arm and leads his hand to the dog’s head.

Oh.

She’s soft.

Aidan’s lips part in a small ‘o’ shape from the realization, and he takes a better note of Diana’s brown eyes that seem to shine at him. He realizes the quivers of his hands have subsided and the more he touches Diana, the more she tilts her head to give him better access to where she likes to be touched.

Cute.

There’s a chuckle from Esme. No punishments come, and the moment of self-deprecation he had just felt dissipates as quickly as it came. The relief is palpable.

Hugs with Esme are allowed. It makes the ache in his chest just a little less painful.

He’s still patting the dog when Esme signs again.

_ <How are you?> _

Aidan blinks again, slightly confused on the point of asking such a question. But, well, a question is a question and that means it requires answering. Even though he’s a little unsure of how he’s meant to respond.

_ <I am well.> _ His emotions may be tumultuous, but he supposes this is the best he’s been in a very long time. He feels rooted for once, even if Master seems to hate him. At least, that’ll give him the motivation to be a good slave. He’ll right his deplorable wrongs.

Esme seems to be relieved from his answer, and in turn Aidan feels more relief that he gave the correct answer. Then, she moves her hands again, though this time it’s slightly less certain.

_ <Do you…> _ She purses her lips together, seeming unsure of what to say. Maybe she doesn’t know how to sign her words, but she soons asks what her next question is.  _ <Do you feel safe?> _

Aidan frowns. Did he understand her correctly? Again, he wonders about the point of the questioning. A hard swallow, and a quick, cautious pinch on his wrist cements that he is indeed still in waking reality.

He’s nervous again.

He thinks about everything that’s happened so quickly these past few days. Master got hurt because of something he did. She claimed ownership of him, and now he’s here. She hit him with a belt and yet… it was starkly different to what Dark Hair did to him. It felt so… paltry in comparison. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as Dark Hair’s punishments.

He thinks he prefers Master over Dark Hair. By a great deal at that, too. 

But he doesn’t feel  _ safe.  _

The same could happen all over again. Master can leave him like Dark Hair. He could meet someone new. They could claim ownership over him then. Someone could steal him away. Master could sell him to someone else. Anything can happen. Horrible, terrible things can happen.

Esme pinches her brows together the longer he doesn’t respond.

He thinks about what would be the right way to answer.

He nods. It’s the right answer, because Esme’s shoulders loosen. She runs a hand through her short grey hair and nods in return, saying something under her breath in Asnainian that he doesn’t understand. 

Her hands move again.

_ <That’s good.> _

Aidan feels his own grin growing. At that moment, one of the guards taps her on the shoulder and says something to her. Esme's face becomes pinched with an uncomfortable looking expression. With a long inhalation that speaks of nothing but weariness, she smiles at him and bids him farewell.

_ <I…> _ She signs, thinking about her words again.  _ <I will visit.> _ There is an odd conviction with how she moves her hands for the word  _ visit. _

When she begins leaving, he has to stop himself from following. He staggers for a moment, his head feeling fuzzy like he’s floating in the murky waters his mind feels like. It’s— a good feeling, somewhat. 

_ Visit. _

_ She’ll visit. _

She’s back to being an odd constant in his life, like in Utreau. 

That makes him happy. He’s not supposed to  _ want  _ things, but he’ll silently revel in this small moment.

The thumping of Diana’s tail brings him back to reality, and he glances at Saskia who watches him with a single raised brow.

Aidan returns to cooking, but not before giving Diana another pet.

He also gives her another piece of meat.

* * *

Aidan anxiously stands in the corner of the room, shifting on his feet and he constantly fiddles with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other, as he watches Master be served the food he made. It’s chicken curry with rice and potatoes. And, of course, a cup of hot chocolate. 

It’s a simple dish, but tasty. He thinks. He was never really allowed to eat the food he made, but Dark Hair usually liked eating this. Though that doesn’t really stop any of the anxiety that’s festering inside of him when he watches Master speak with Saskia, and she stares at the food now in front of her.

Master’s face is hard, rigid with tension. Every movement looks like it causes her discomfort. At one moment, she winces for a second, and she rubs her thigh.

Aidan doesn’t like seeing that. His breathing is shallow when he watches her almost shakily take a scoop of curry with her fork. It feels like his body is preparing for a marathon with how restless he becomes in those few scant seconds.

Sweat trickles his brow.

The food enters her mouth. She chews once. Then twice. Then stops for several seconds. Master’s eyes blink. Once, twice, thrice. 

Her back becomes straighter, and she begins eating with more enthusiasm. 

She does not say anything to him. She doesn't even look at him.

And yet, that’s enough for him.

He becomes restless in a new way. He tries to keep his cautious grin just that— cautious. Small. But inside he has to restrain the urge to let out a whoop of delight, so he opts to lightly bounce on his feet. 

_ “You’ve become so good at cooking,”  _ Father had said to him once. There was a crinkle in his eyes that Aidan only saw when he ate his food.  _ “I’m so proud of you.” _

Master likes his cooking.

Suddenly, his back doesn’t hurt anymore.

* * *

It’s a wholly different situation when he’s sleeping that night, however.

The sheets are soft. Tender, even. Warm. And so are the pillows.

It’s— strange. He usually slept on the floor when he was with Dark Hair, and whenever he did have a bed he never had a mattress. Such a soft, spongy surface that bounces under his weight makes him feel… 

Vulnerable. 

Like something’s about to pounce on him. Like Dark Hair is going to creep through the door and violate him like she seemed to take great joy in doing. Despite her always having something distinctly unimpressed written on her face, her voice was usually dreadfully playful.

Aidan feels as though he has insects just beneath his skin. It’s an oddity that persists for several seconds. This bed is unnatural. He shouldn’t be allowed in the bed. He feels like he’s about to get a boot to the face for being so stupidly bold for even entertaining the fact he belongs here.

Through uncoordinated movements, he falls off the bed like a corpse.

He stays on the floor for a while.

It’s more comforting than the mattress. He belongs here. He just wishes Esme were here to put a blanket over him.

Through the curtains of his room—  _ his  _ room. To think Master would be so kind as to give him something so undeserving!— there’s a silver beam of moonlight, entering in pristine silence, igniting every corner. Every now and then he’ll hear a bird chirp.

Quiet and calm. The floor feels right, but there’s still a thrumming in his heart.

He’s awake. That means he should be somewhere else.

With Master.

He needs to  _ move.  _ If he’s awake, he can be useful, in some capacity. What if Master awakes and he’s not there to get her tea and breakfast? What if she needs help getting dressed? What if she simply wants to use his body? He needs to be  _ there  _ and not  _ here. _

He had succeeded with the food today— a fact that still makes him giddy— and that means he needs to continue to succeed. Master may have not outwardly told him that she expects him to be by her side when it’s morning, but that just spurs him on further. She shouldn’t need to order him. This is just  _ expected.  _ He needs to show he’s capable of knowing what she wants without her needing to waste words on him.

Aidan needs to be good.

He stands and slowly exits his room.

Idly, he notes the entire home smells of lavender. It’s not something he’s noticed before. Another thing he didn’t notice is the amount of animal heads on the wall. So many creatures he’s never seen before, so alive looking if it weren’t for the fact that it’s just their mounted heads. Their eyes seem to follow him and he hunches his back to appear smaller, his steps growing faster. 

He’s soon in the main foyer, almost to Master’s room as it’s right beside a looming staircase. The foyer leads to a hallway that’s littered with framed painted portraits, but he doesn’t take much note of that. His main focus is Master’s bedroom.

And the fact Diana is lying directly in front of him. Aidan stops mid-step, almost about to trip against her. Aidan isn’t sure he’s seen something look more content than she does at this moment, lying on her back, with her four legs stuck up straight into the air as she snores noisily. 

He has to restrain himself from petting her on the belly.

But just as he’s about to step over the serene looking animal, he hears the floorboards creak. 

At the base of the stairs is someone.

Brown hair, skinny frame— a man, distinctly familiar—

Nathaniel?

Yes, it’s him. One of Master’s brothers. Aidan swallows thickly to temper his quickly growing anxiety. Was he not quiet enough? Did he disturb his sleep? That’s enough to warrant a slap, or several.  _ Stupid,  _ his mind screams at him,  _ stupid slave. _

Nathaniel’s one visible eye looks at him up and down and Aidan’s body tenses. He should… apologize in some way. Nathaniel may be a man but he’s Master’s brother and therefore more important than Aidan will ever be. Probably. He should— He should be  _ respected.  _ Master would likely want that.

There’s an enigmatic curl of Nathaniel’s lips, and slowly, as if to not spook him, he brings a single finger to his lips.

Aidan blinks owlishly.

Nathaniel merely continues smirking, and with practiced movements he tiptoes past Diana and him, opens the front door slowly, and then leaves the house.

What—

What in the world?

What just happened? Did he do something wrong? Did he do something  _ right?  _ He obviously wants him… quiet. Ah, maybe that was some type of order. To not— To not tell anyone he just left. He’s seen enough men in the brothel do the same thing, sneaking out with a finger to their lips, to know that.

...If Master doesn’t ask, maybe he can entertain that order. He’s her brother, Aidan reminds himself, he can probably still order him. Just as long as his desires don’t conflict with Master’s he can do what Nathaniel wants.

Still.

That was weird.

Shaking himself from that sudden and strange display, Aidan gets back to the matter at hand. He steps over Diana quickly, then pries Master’s bedroom door open.

She’s turned away from him, but she’s sleeping. He hopes his food helped her get comfortable for the night. The mere thought of that makes his belly feel warm with delight.

Silently closing the door, Aidan then moves to the usual corner he sits at. He kneels, belly feeling warmer with the thought that  _ yes, this is right. This is where I belong.  _ He’s doing his part of being a good slave and  _ staying  _ as a good slave. Him peeing himself— the memory feels so far. It was a horrible, humiliating thing he did, and so he needs to do all he can to be the best he can be. He will show her his devotion. He can do better. He  _ will  _ do better.

He stays there, kneeling. His breathing slows to a steady rhythm as he awaits the coming of morning. He’s ready to serve Master.

This is right.

Kneeling here— it’s just as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the Valentine family. Just a couple of quirky folks that totally don't have a bunch of emotional baggage that's about to burst and spill over.
> 
> PTSD wasn't really considered a thing until after the World Wars, as well as with mental health in general. It was such a foreign concept, so I thought I'd play around with that idea here. Asnain is a nation that prides itself in its beauty, and consider Acadia as the greatest artist. So I think it would only be natural that they'd disregard mental health 'cause that would mean Acadia can make, like, mistakes. It's the same way how they steadfastly try to ignore/hide birthmarks and other perceived 'imperfections,' because PTSD ain't beautiful. It's also another excuse to make the society more overtly misandrist as well because they only see men's mind to be 'weak' enough to be mentally ill. Tee hee.
> 
> I don't know if Esme's return and subsequent groveling hit as hard as it meant to, but I guess that's the problem of re-reading your own writing. Everything just feels so dry, lel.
> 
> Up next: everyone's favourite medic will be making her illustrious return, Frea's sanity continues to take a nosedive, and Aidan and Esme just try to vibe. Oh, and Marcus and Nathaniel are there, too. 
> 
> As usual, if you like, please consider leaving a comment. If there's any egregious spelling errors pls let me know so I can correct them ASAP. Thanks for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to read chapter 10. I know I used it as a sort of PSA about google losing my progress, but it's a proper chapter now. Just in case anyone missed it, lel.
> 
> *Sith voice* Join the dark side, Frea.....

“Look at yourself.”

She’s in a void. It’s like the world has been etched in charcoal, the blackness drowning out everything else. There’s nothing here.

Except herself.

Frea lays there, the darkness suffocating her body like a damp, musty, thick blanket, clinging to every inch of her pale skin. Her palms are sweating, her breathing rapid and shallow. There’s something coming out of her legs.

Blood.

She realizes that she’s wearing her green military uniform soon after. It’s— the same. It’s the same as Utreau. Gazing further downwards, she sees what she expects. A splatter of red. Blood flows, thick and sluggish. Then, there’s something else. Something that wasn’t in Utreau.

Flecks of doughy white nestles within mangled flesh, feverishly squirming into chunks of gore— _Maggots._

She should react. Her gut should churn. She should hurl at the sight. Scream in pain. _Something._

And yet she merely stares at it blankly. She feels nothing but a burrowing emptiness in her chest. Frea isn’t even sure she’s breathing right now, or if she even can. Maybe she’s currently in limbo. She’s heard of that before— though that’s something from Utritian myths. It’s a place where souls go for an eternal battle. Or something to that effect. 

She smirks mirthlessly to the void. It _would_ be just her luck for the Utritian religion to be real and not hers. What, has she been condemned to eternal damnation now? Burning rage hisses through her body like deathly poison. She’s about to tear at the maggots burrowing into her mangled flesh when she hears a step echo in the darkness. Finally, she remembers the voice that had spoken to her when she had awoken in his horrible void.

It was her own voice. Whatever she had felt bubbling inside of her evaporates immediately when she turns with bated breath.

It’s her. Again. Looming over her with a snide smirk. Similar to when she saw herself in the mirror on the train.

The other Frea snorts, hopping on her feet that don’t have a shred of damage on them. She begins circling her, and does a pirouette when she comes back in front of her. All with a mocking glint in her eyes. Her entire face— it’s a caricature of her own that makes Frea’s skin crawl, like those maggots in her legs are beginning to burrow into her arms.

“You’re such a pathetic sight,” her twin jeers, “Poor little photographer thought she could be something when she finally crawled out of her mother’s shadow. How sad.” She smiles, bouncing on the soles of her feet like an excited child. “No one likes a dirty cripple. You know that. Acadia just _hates_ them.”

The other Frea tilts her head, stepping closer to her. “Some might say repulsive and hideous.” She narrows her eyes in a sickeningly playful manner as she leans down, cupping Frea’s cheeks with deathly cold hands. “So weak. You have absolutely nothing to offer. So…”

Everything starts to become blurry as her heart tries to crawl up her own throat. Everything hurts and yet— it doesn’t. She’s in pain and then she’s not. She doesn’t know what to think, what to _feel,_ everything is a cacophony of conflicting emotions vying for control. She doesn’t know what to focus on, unable to say a word, so she keeps staring at her twin’s horrible grin that bends at unnatural angles as the other Frea spits out her next words.

“So why don’t you just die?”

* * *

There’s whimpering coming from Master’s bed.

Aidan blinks, body and mind becoming more aware of his surroundings after dozing off slightly. _Stupid,_ he quickly chides himself. He shouldn’t have dozed off in the first place, and now Master seems to be awake and he doesn’t even have any coffee or tea or food or whatever she wants—

With a choked gasp, Master throws the blanket off of herself. She flails her arms around, and Aidan, assailed with concern, stands to quickly approach her. Somethings wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong— and _he_ didn’t notice until it was too late.

If Master doesn’t punish him for such a detriment, he might just do it himself. Shame washes over him, but before he can reach Master she falls off the bed.

He freezes as her face contorts into a tight grimace. Between her clenched jaws she lets out a sharp hiss of agony and her eyes squeezes shut. She’s laying on her stomach, fists shaking like she’s trying to escape from the confines of her skin. Her breathing becomes shallow and quick, and Aidan watches as sweat begins to form on her brow. She continues to lay there— body tense, head hunched into her shoulders, shaking, and almost panting.

Aidan reminds himself that she’s in pain.

He quickly kneels by her side, unsure of what exactly to do but knowing he has to do _something._ The first being putting her back in her bed—

“Don’t fucking touch me.” She growls, violently lifting her arm up suddenly and in response Aidan cowers at the action. For a moment, he thinks she’s going to hit him, but instead she pounds her fist against the floor.

“G-Guh… kgh…” She grunts, and hits the floor with her fist again. And again. Her barely restrained whimpers and fist are the only sounds Aidan hears for what feels like an eternity. It makes him anxious, and he stares, in some sort of vain desperation for further clarification or some sort of semblance of an order. For her to tell him to do something for her benefit. Anything. His mind is in needless disarray as he continues to watch her— useless, and unable to help her unless she allows him to. 

His chest feels heavy.

Master soon stops hitting the floor, and Aidan feels his body relax for a fraction of a second. She lays there, body still except for her shallow breathing that gradually becomes less rapid and unfocused. She still grunts, and her body is tense. After several minutes, she presses her forehead against the ground and lets out a laboured sigh.

“I-It hurts…” She croaks, “My legs hurt. I— I think I landed on my stumps…” She then says multiple things in the language he doesn’t understand, though he thinks it’s probably swearing.

Aidan leans forward instinctively. Aches and pains— he knows how to help with that. Dark Hair always wanted him to massage her shoulders when she hurt there. He hesitantly brings his hands closer, but stops himself, arms then falling limply on his lap.

He’s not sure if massaging her legs will help at all. It might make things worse.

And he doesn’t want to make her mad.

He averts his gaze upwards to the ceiling, a prickling sensation forming on his skin as he begins to grow frustrated with his inaction. He would ask her if she wants something, like _‘Master would you like some tea or hot chocolate?’_ but Aidan obviously knows nothing will come from his mouth. So he sits there. Useless, useless, useless.

There’s a sound of shuffling beside him and Aidan quickly brings his eyes to Master. She’s rolling over on her back, though her forehead is slicked with sweat and her expression is laced with nothing but pain. Her breathing is heavy and slow now as she lays on her back, eyes still tightly closed.

Then, her eyes flutter open. Her fists are clenching and unclenching at her side, and she looks at him.

There’s a hammering of Aidan’s heart that pulses through his head, and feels as though someone kicks his chest with each pump.

“...What—” Master swallows, her left eye twitching as though an insect bit her, “What are y-you even doing here?”

His breath hitches in his throat when he quickly signs.

_ <I’m here to serve you. I want to be here every morning to help you.> _

He’s not quite sure how he expected her to respond, but the snort that comes out of her surprises him. “Is that right.” She says, softly and probably to herself. Aidan shifts on his knees, his nerves still making him anxious, and he sits a little straighter when Master continues to look at him. There’s something in her eyes. Something grim and steely.

“Do you think I’m repulsive?” She asks suddenly, voice humourless and a self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. “Or hideous. Or weak. Whichever word you prefer.”

Aidan furrows his brows together. The words she uses are desolate in their meaning. He repeats the question in his mind, again and again and again. He pronounces _repulsive, hideous_ and _weak_ in his mind. He goes over their connotations and thinks about how they could possibly be linked with Master. There’s no epiphany to be had. There’s no realization of anything. These words—

These words are meaningless to him.

He doesn’t need to think about his answer to Master’s question.

_ <I think you’re nice.> _ He signs, her widening eyes giving him the motivation to continue moving his hands. _ <You are the kindest Master I could have ever had.> _ And he _means_ it. Master is good to him. She gives him what he both deserves and doesn’t deserve. He’ll take her commands in stride, whatever they may be, and always, _always_ do better. He’ll prove to her he’s worthy of being her slave. It’s what he’s been doing this entire time.

And maybe in the future, he’ll be able to tell Esme he feels safe, and mean that too.

He just needs to be good, he reminds himself. He reminds himself of that a lot.

The disbelief in Master’s eyes doesn’t lessen, and she huffs a hollow laugh.

“...You’re ridiculous.” She rubs her forehead with one of her hands, and Aidan notices one of her legs twitch as her other fist clenches again, knuckles white. “I belt you and you think I’m nice.” She sighs again, and Aidan can only think that the least he could do at this moment is get her a pillow if she’s going to continue lying on the floor.

Her next words makes his mind become a halting blank, forced to a screeching stop, and he’s rooted by his own surprise.

“What if I want to hurt you again?”

She’s as still as a statue now. Aloof, and Aidan has nothing to process her question. There’s nothing— eerily like her mother and his palms quickly become sweaty.

Excess spit forms in his mouth and he swallows thickly. He’s a good slave and Master is nice. Whatever she does he’ll happily welcome it. Women just like to hurt men. That always happens, so this question— while initially surprising— he doesn’t understand the point of. He is there for whatever she wants. 

He’ll prove to her he’s worthy of being her slave, he thinks again.

_ <You can do whatever you like with me. I belong to you.> _ Nothing she can do can be worse than what Dark Hair… he thinks. He _hopes,_ though he quickly dashes the thought away as soon as it comes. It’s pointless. He shouldn’t think like that. It’s _wrong._

Shakily, she lifts her arms up, bringing her hand to him and for a moment he thinks he’s going to get slapped. No hits come, instead her hand is like a tap on his cheek. She pulls back her hand, then brings it forward again in another tap. A weak imitation of a slap, which just serves to confuse Aidan.

His heart sinks when her lips quiver, and she blinks at him furiously. Whatever blankness she had in her expression shatters all at once.

Her eyes begin to become noticeably moist.

“I hate you,” She practically wheezes out, and her hand becomes a fist that weakly hits his shoulder. There’s no pain, only a haggard strike that repeats itself. “I hate you. I want— I want to lock you in a basement so no one can see you but I… but I also can’t stand looking at you.” She hiccups, her hits becoming even weaker and less coordinated.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice is wobbly, “I don’t— I don’t understand anything anymore. It feels like there’s a noose around my neck that’s tightening with each fucking d-day. My skin is t-too tight… I just want to rip it o-off…” She chokes on a breath, each utterance seeming to become a challenge for her. “I… I…” Master sniffles, “I hate you.”

Her eyes are heavy with tears that miraculously remain unshed. Like an extinguished candle her eyes melt into an ever growing darkness of misery and despair, no longer flickering with the fire of spirit. Her glassy stare winds Aidan like a punch to the stomach. He can’t breathe in fear of her shattering like glass in front of him.

Aidan is beginning to forget how Master was when he first met her.

He doesn’t know what to do. All he wants to do is be good for her.

But he doesn’t know how to do that right now. He doesn’t know what _she_ wants. He thought he was doing so well when he watched her eat his food. Now— he feels like he’s in a maze, unsure of where to go. Heavy, the air seems to be as the agonizingly long seconds draw on.

He doesn’t know what to do.

So he sits there, taking her weak hits as he listens to her whimper.

  
  
  
  


_Useless._

  
  
  
  


Except—

Except he’s _not_ going to do nothing.

Because he’s here so he can help her when she needs and he’s going to _damn well do it._ If he gets punished for being so forward, he’ll happily accept it. He’ll deserve it, but at the same time, he won’t regret his next actions. Of that he is sure. He’s being _good._

Hooking his arms beneath Master’s legs and back, Aidan swiftly picks her up. Mentally, he notes that maybe he should make her portions bigger for whenever he cooks for her again. She’s as light as a feather.

A surprised yelp escapes Master’s lips, and she grabs a hold of his shoulders. Just as quickly as when he picked her up, he places on her velvety soft mattress and then puts her bedsheets over her legs. She’s frozen, staring at him owlishly and with a gaping mouth, perhaps struggling to find her words. She’s more surprised than offended, which Aidan will take as a good sign. Again, should she decide to punish him for this, he’ll take it. At least then, she’ll be in a more comfortable spot and that’s all that matters.

Kneeling again, he signs. _ <The floor is hard and uncomfortable. I want to make sure you are well, Master. Would you like me to get you anything else?> _

There’s a part of his mind that’s screaming at him for having the gall to literally do any of this. But— men in the brothel have always taught him time and time again that a woman feeling good matters above all else. That’s what he’s doing. The bed feels good for Master. It has to. It’s a _bed._

He knows he would have never done this with Dark Hair.

But Master isn’t her.

So it’s fine, he thinks. He convinces himself that he’s doing the right thing.

Then he thinks about how acting this out of turn is similar to when he hugged Esme— An impulsive act. Disrespectful. _Selfish._

Aidan begins feeling a familiar bout of nervousness hit him. Maybe— Maybe he _is_ doing everything wrong. Maybe he’s let things get to his head. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should have just sat there and wait for Master to finish hitting him. Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s doing everything wrong. Esme is not Master. There are different… different rules and things like that. He can’t just _do_ things— He’s selfish, so horribly and terribly selfish—

Master scrunches her face, for a brief second anger flickers on her expression and Aidan’s heart skips a beat. Though, just as quickly as it came it disappears, and she then opts to rub her eyes with a grunt, though she still sniffles as she regains a semblance of control of her emotions.

“You’re ridiculous,” she repeats, pinching the bridge of her nose with yet another weary sigh. “But I suppose I am, too.” 

Then, there’s silence, save for Master’s haggard breathing and sniffling that gradually decreases with each passing second.

In that moment of absolute stillness Aidan’s storm of thoughts ebb away to nothingness. Unaware of his own heart beating or the rise and fall of his chest, her previous declaration finally cements itself into his mind. 

_I hate you._

He’s… sad about that, he belatedly realizes. He thinks it’s the primary reason he picked her up, as selfish as it is. He thinks about hugging Esme. He thinks about what he just did with Master. 

Then he thinks about when he first met them in Utreau. He thinks about what he first thought about Asnainians. He thinks about it a lot.

They’re lenient and let slaves get away with a lot.

So, he hopes they continue to let him get away with these terrible and impulsive actions, so that he may be able to truly show how much of a good slave he can be for them. He thinks he knows where the line is. Don’t soil yourself. He can manage that.

He just hopes that the more he’s allowed to be a little bit selfish… Master can hate him less. Because he’ll be good. He’ll always be good for her. It’s all he wants. That’s a _good_ type of selfishness, isn’t it? Master will see that, won’t she?

Master huffs, and doesn’t look at him when she says, “There are documents on the desk there. Go get them. I might as well get some translations done while I’m able.”

Neither of them notices the small, near imperceptible curve of Aidan’s lips.

And when he goes back to kneeling and silently watches her look over the papers, he feels his own sense of pride beginning to swell up inside of him.

* * *

“Mother got you a new camera!” Marcus happily chirps with an earnest and toothy smile. He presents the contraption excitedly, practically bouncing in his seat, and Frea takes it almost wearily like the thing is going to bite her.

It’s a near replica of the camera she had previously. It’s small, compact, and can fit in her pocket. Obviously it’s something meant for someone who travels a lot and doesn’t want to be bogged down with laborious set-up procedures. It’s silver with accents of gold. Beautiful, even.

Frea isn’t sure what she’s supposed to feel about having a camera in her hands again. She’s not confident that she feels much of _anything,_ especially knowing mother is the one that bought it.

So she opts to flatly thank Marcus for the present. His presence in the morning has become a new constant. It would appear having breakfast with him in her room will become her standard from now on. 

Her thumb rubs the base of the camera, and the corner of her mouth twitch upwards. “I’m surprised you didn’t trip and break it.”

Marcus reels back in mock defense, though almost falls off his chair in the process and an embarrassed blush dots his cheeks. “Goodness, Frey-Frey! Have a little faith in your big brother!” Then he proceeds to pour her a cup of brewed tea. They’re having toast with raspberry jam this morning. His smile grows wider and fonder, “And I brought some of your photos from your old room! You had hung these all over the wall so I thought you’d like to do the same here.”

Beside him, Nathaniel makes a disgruntled noise. “You’re so loud. Geez.”

At that, Marcus pipes down. But only for a moment.

“But I can’t help but be excited!”

Nathaniel squints, a large sketchbook in his hands that he absentmindedly sketches over. “I read in a book that women don’t like loud men.” He says dryly.

“You and your books. You know, I started this new story that’s about a thief who wants to steal away a man, because she doesn’t think he’s getting treated properly by his future spouse. She sends him letters saying that treasures should be coveted!” Marcus sighs dreamily, “Oh, I want a woman to call me a treasure!”

“Mhm. You know, I want to read _Daughter of Iron._ Saskia calls it a fantasy book.”

“Oh, fantasy?” Marcus furrows his brows, “I’m not sure that’s a type of book men or children would understand.”

Nathaniel doesn’t make a response to that, and he momentarily stops sketching but then begins to draw with more fervour. With that conversation apparently over, Frea takes note of the disparity of her two brothers.

Marcus wears a velvet jacket fully lined for comfort while golden colored lace details decorate its sleeve cuffs, collar, lapel, and hem. The buttons are purely decorative as the jacket is meant to be open to show off the damask baroque vest he wears underneath. He sits with his back straight, legs crossed while he holds his tea cup just above his lap, and generally being the picture of refined grace. Meanwhile, Nathaniel wears a plain linen shirt— he was never a fan of frills— and slouches and hunches in his seat.

Sometimes it’s a little hard to believe they’re related.

And Aidan is, well, Aidan. He sits with them as well, as Marcus has insisted he become part of their daily breakfasts, resulting in Saskia mainly sitting off to the side doing unrelated work. Aidan’s just been sitting awkwardly with a tea cup in his hands.

She avoids looking at him. Her cheeks grow warm at the mere thought of what occurred mere hours ago.

Her mind is still abuzz about it. So much so that her damn nightmare feels so far in comparison.

She… _thinks_ she wants to be angry at him. To accuse him of humiliating her, but her mind had been in such a state of disarray that she merely just doesn’t want to think about it. To be reminded of her deplorable condition makes her cheeks grow even warmer. 

How pathetic.

Her brows pinch together as a mirthless smile plays on her lips. 

_Ah, another word to add to the list._

So instead, she just focuses on Marcus as he shows her some of her old photographs.

He shows them to Aidan as well.

“This is the Remian Loch. They say it was made from the tears of a god! It was frozen over when we went and we ice skated around. Oh goodness, there were moments when I thought I’d fall through the ice!” He glances at Frea. 

Her hands tighten around the camera. Her legs still hurt, _a lot,_ and she grimaces at the pain that never left since she fell from her bed. She can’t be bothered to put much effort in her ‘translation.’ 

“Just smile and nod. And drink your tea. It’s just a lake.” She says to Aidan while avoiding to look at him directly. There’s a pit in her stomach that feels _awful,_ like a never ending well, that she tries to fix with angrily eating her toast. She knows she can’t keep up with… whatever she’s trying to do forever. Saskia is teaching Aidan Asnainian, and Marcus insists that he’s learning sign language.

What is she going to do when they understand one another? What _can_ she do?

...Why is she doing anything?

Marcus speaks again, “Ah, and this one was taken some years ago. Nathaniel looks even smaller in here doesn’t he? This is when he first started drawing.”

He angles the photo in a way that both she and Aidan can see it. There’s a twinge of something that hits her when she sees it. Unconsciously, she smiles at the memory of her running around and taking photos of every little thing she could when she first had gotten her camera. Every nook and cranny wasn’t safe from her lens, and ultimately she supposes she took a lot of pointless shots of just the wall and furniture. 

She also remembers when she first showed Nathaniel her pictures, he ripped them apart.

She was so upset when that happened, but now she wishes she could go back to those days.

Frea sighs. “That’s Nathaniel when he was younger.” She says in Utritian, not quite sure there’s much of a point in lying here. Surely Aidan’s smart enough to infer the subject of the photo even if she didn’t say anything.

That doesn’t quite make her feel any less irritated with everyone just wanting to _talk_ with him.

The grip on her camera tightens even further when Marcus seems to enjoy showing Aidan her photos—

“You look like you need to go to the bathroom.”

  
Marcus stops flipping through her photos and Frea blinks in quick succession. She squints at Nathaniel, who’s since stopped sketching to stare at her blankly.

“Your face is all scrunched up. You always look so mad since you got back.”

Frea never really considered herself to be a great actress, but she thought she had been at least better at hiding her pain than she apparently thought. Her brain stutters for a moment at the realization and she cringes at herself.

Marcus speaks before she can, _“Nathaniel,”_ he draws out his name with a strained smile, “Don’t be rude, remember?” 

The other man pouts. “You guys are being weird. I don’t get it.”

Frea decides she needs a subject change.

“Are you still drawing the bird you started yesterday?”

Nathaniel goes back to drawing and doesn’t take his eyes off the sketchbook when he answers. “I didn’t start yesterday. There was a guard on her break who sat near me outside the aviary. She had a blocked nose and every time she breathed there was a whistling noise.” He focuses further on the sketchbook, squinting and drawing faster. “It was really annoying so I couldn’t concentrate. Felt like I had nettles under my shirt. So I’m trying to draw what I remember from the aviary.”

Marcus takes the opportunity to lean over Nathaniel’s shoulder. “That must be the Feathered Scarf! You get better every day at this. I’m sure any woman would fancy you something fierce if she saw your talent!”

Nathaniel just responds with a single word.

“Loud.”

“Oh!” Marcus hunches his shoulders when Nathaniel side-eyes him with an annoyed look, “Oh,” Marcus then whispers. “Sorry.”

When the younger man continues to focus wholeheartedly on his drawing, what he does is nothing short of supernatural, and it comes from the focus Nathaniel has. He looks lost in his own world, and both Marcus and Frea know it’ll take a while to get any response out of him if they want to continue a semblance of a conversation. Honestly, she’s a bit jealous of the amount of concentration her brother has when it comes to drawing. She wishes she had a single iota of that drive when it came translating documents.

Marcus decides to return his attention to Frea instead, her photos still in his hands. “And how about _you?_ I’m sure once mother begins finding you a spouse his family would love you when they see what a good photographer you are.”

The look he gives her can only be described as cheeky. Frea is very much aware her romantic pool is non-existent and Marcus is just trying to be nice by dangling a lure in front of her face to bait her into discussing future prospects of marriage. Unconsciously, her eyes flick to Aidan just sitting there and probably hopelessly confused.

The idea of romance just suddenly seems like such a bitter thought.

No one wants to be with someone like her, so she doubts even mother can find anyone that would be willing to give their son to her. And even if she did, she doesn’t want anything to do with it.

She decides it’s time for another subject change.

“So, Marcus, do you still cry when you burn toast?”

* * *

Dr. Kippe’s eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of her spectacles, make Frea feel like she’s being pinned down, like she’s an insect being looked at under a microscope. It’s a bit awkward having the older woman look at every inch of her body. She had cleaned her bandages, clicking her tongue in the process.

There’s probably a bruise from when she fell.

Now, she wishes her brothers and Aidan were back. But breakfast was over and they left, and Saskia had escorted Aidan away for his lessons to be somewhere else now— by Dr. Kippe’s behest, no less— and just… _ugh._

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Kippe’s voice takes her out of her thoughts, and Frea sees the woman smiling warmly at her.

That’s a good question, of which Frea isn’t even sure what the answer is. Her silence is apparently long enough to be what Dr. Kippe is looking for, and she hands Frea a small white capsule.

“It’s a pill that helps with pain. I can fetch you some water if you’d like to have it now.”

Frea feels her brows crease. The pills just sit on the doctor’s hand, and yet she feels like she’s being mocked by the medication. Her chest feels both heavy and empty looking at it, and she quickly realizes that she doesn’t think she’s ever taken this sort of pill before.

She’s intimately aware why she doesn’t want to take the medication. The dull ache in her stumps seems to flare up and she grimaces.

“...I can manage.”

Dr. Kippe hums in disapproval. She places the pill inside a container which then goes into a pocket in her knee length white coat and she gives Frea a reassuring smile.

“I know Damaris can be very… bullheaded about a lot of things, but you’re an adult. You can make your own decisions. If you want to speak to someone, I can set you up with someone. Or you can speak with me!” Her voice is chipper, but her eyes speak of concern. “It’s okay to not be okay.” She says softly, and Frea’s jaw tenses.

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. Kippe says, “There’s nothing shameful from needing help.”

Frea suddenly seems _very_ interested in picking at the loose skin around her fingernails. Her mind tries to apply a veneer of logical thought, as if that could make a difference, and then avoids the sharp pain of failure by backtracking and forcing her to remember every little thing over and over again.

Shameful.

_Yet another word to add to the list._ Is that what happened last night? Aidan picking her up? That was indeed a shameful display. To be helped by someone like _him—_ it makes her feel as though there are insects gnawing at her insides. The maggots from her dream infest her again.

“I said I can manage.” She grits out, voice tight like a frayed rope ready to snap, watching Dr. Kippe’s smile become a sharp frown before she tries to grin again. 

The doctor sighs through her nose, hands clasped together as her fingers tap on her knuckles. 

“Imagine my surprise when I come to help you and then your mother immediately puts me and all my assistants under a gag order about your condition and about the young Utritian lad.” She comments, and Frea furrows her brows. “That got me thinking, and I know there’s an awful lot going on around here. I know it must be unbelievably stressful. I’m a doctor,” she winks, “so it’s my job to worry. So why don’t we just have a little chat. You never know, you might feel better about it later. I’d also love to give the Utritian— I believe his name is Aidan? I’d love to give him a check-up.”

And just like that, she feels it again.

Like her head is about to explode.

With a shaky inhale she closes her eyes, only to be met with images of mother’s glare and her nightmare’s cackling grin.

“Are there people talking about me?” Frea spits out, “I bet everyone’s laughing about how that Valentine bitch is a cripple. M-Mother always talked about people looking for weaknesses and here I am. I’m just full of weaknesses, aren’t I?”

She’s not sure what she’s aiming to achieve by saying that.

But there’s no catharsis to be had.

All that happens is that once again her emotions turn jagged and her insides tight.

Dr. Kippe leans back, taken aback, opening her mouth and then closing it while she grasps for her words. “Frea, I didn’t mean to—”

“You said you wanted to help. Just help me get onto my stupid chair.”

Dr. Kippe’s expression twists into a look of defeat. “...Alright.” She says, standing to get the wheelchair. The process of getting from the bed to the chair is as awkward and tense as Frea expected.

Her body feels too tight.

And in the back of her mind she just feels insufferable disappointment in herself.

* * *

Saskia has kind eyes. There’s something about her that makes Aidan feel at ease, even though he wants to be by Master. They’re in his room now, taken away for reasons unknown to him. They sit at a table with a book in front of them, and Saskia points at the words written in it. Then she presses on a contraption— a tape recorder he’ll come to later realize— and a voice says the word in Utritian. Then it says it in Asnainian.

It’s a weird way to learn a language. Maybe. Aidan doesn’t really have a frame of reference.

But the fact that everyone around him speaks Asnainian is helping him. He’s _getting_ some words. Or, he hopes he is. People’s tones generally give him clues as to what they’re saying sometimes, too.

He hopes he can learn quickly. Master would like that, probably.

They continue on for a bit like this. Intermittently, Saskia writes something down and gestures that he replicates her writing and he does so. Sometimes she’ll voice out the words herself.

After some time, there’s a knocking at the door and Marcus peeks his head through the door.

He practically bounces on his feet when he approaches and Aidan cranes his neck upwards to meet his gaze. He’s always taken aback by just how tall Master’s brother is sometimes. His smile is wide and exuberant, and soon enough he’s gesticulating at Aidan.

Well, signing actually, though it’s pretty incomprehensible and Aidan just blinks at response.

It reminds him of when Master first signed at him.

Marcus looks at him expectantly, and with each passing second his smile grows smaller and smaller.

Beside him, Saskia chuckles, and the two of them exchange words.

Aidan thinks that ordinarily he would be nervous at this point. Instead he just sits and waits. He thinks about the hand gestures Marcus just did, and he thinks he knows somewhat what he was trying to infer. 

He’s pretty sure Marcus had the same issue that Master had— he was pointing the wrong way.

He lightly pulls on Marcus’ sleeve to get his attention, and he begins to mimic what he tried to sign, but correctly. Hopefully Master’s brother understands his meaning.

There’s a small bit of anxiety that festers inside of him, but he’s helping Marcus. He’s being useful.

He places the flat of his hand to the middle of his chest to sign _ <My,> _ then with both hands he presses the pointer and middle fingers together and tucks the remaining fingers into his palm to sign _ <name is.> _

Then he signs Marcus’ name, though like with what he did with Master he points towards his chest and shakes his head, and then he points his fingers in front of him and nods. 

Marcus blinks, and then in an instant his smile returns and he brings his hands together in a clap.

“Oh!”

Aidan doesn’t need to be fluent in Asnainian to know what he just exclaimed.

Master’s brother quickly replicates what he just did and nods vigorously, and then brings his hand towards his chin and points it forward.

_ <Thank you!> _

There’s just something about the energy Marcus gives off that makes Aidan think he’s practically yelling with his hands. It’s pretty impressive in its own way.

Aidan feels his lip twitch upwards. He helped. He was useful. His chest feels warm. Saskia lightly claps her hands together and says something to Marcus, presumably praise if his quick blush is anything to go by.

They then continue a little more like that— an impromptu signing lesson that makes Aidan feel kind of fuzzy in his stomach. Though, it doesn’t last very long, as a guard makes her appearance to tell Marcus something who then deflates with a small pout.

Master’s brother leaves, but not before energetically signing another _ <Thank you!> _He signs it several times.

He also fumbles when he trips over his own feet.

Aidan promptly returns to his lessons, this time Saskia begins pointing letters and giving him a pencil. Saskia does her own by way of demonstrating how it is done, and nods and gestures in ways that he can only interpret as methods of encouragement for him to begin his own set of writing. Every time he writes something, she points at each letter and voices the pronunciation. 

She doesn’t say anything about how jittery his letters are.

She just smiles and pronounces them.

And Aidan writes, and writes, and writes.

_Aa, Bb, Cc, Dd…_

* * *

Once his lessons have finished, Saskia escorts him to the main foyer.

Aidan promptly stumbles when he sees Esme again. The atmosphere in the room is a little strange, with Esme, the guards and Saskia. There’s a brittle tension in the air.

But—

That’s a small, insignificant thing.

Within seconds he practically hops his way towards Esme’s side. The older woman gives him her usual tired smile, and Aidan thinks he sees more wrinkles on her face. She looks more aged, somehow. Despite it only being a day or two since he last saw her.

But she’s visiting, like she said she would, and that’s all that matters. 

Esme pats him on the shoulder, and Aidan unconsciously leans into the touch. 

Her lips part. 

“Hey, kid.”

It's almost imperceptible, the little felicitations that blooms inside of him from _understanding._ She said something and he understood! Absolutely, he most _definitely_ understood the greeting— of that he is sure. It sounds identical to a word Saskia repeated to him and pointed to in the book. It was ‘hey,’ and he has no doubt of it. However, the second word he was a little unsure of. He thinks he might have missed it.

_But,_ if he thinks about what Esme usually likes to call him… He’s sure it was ‘kid.’

His growing smile must be infectious, because Esme’s mouth curl further upwards. Unfortunately, her next words are something he doesn’t understand in the slightest and he pinches his brows together.

With a final pat on his shoulder, and her smile never leaving, Esme then opts for signing.

_ <You… understood?> _

He nods his head eagerly. Esme responds with a chuff.

_ <Smart.> _She’s beginning to grow more confident in her hand movements and Aidan feels something… tender grow inside of him. When she turns her head he follows her gaze, and takes better note of the room before him.

He already knows there’s… a lot of animal heads on the wall, but there’s a great many other things as well. Maybe Asnainians aren’t very fond of keeping their walls bare. 

There’s old faded tapestry of a woman with red hair in between the animal heads, and while he was headed to Master’s room last night he knew there was furniture, obviously, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a place with so much… stuff. The furniture is rustic and dark, sprinkled liberally with vibrant cushions. It looks comfy, but Esme doesn’t sit, so neither does he. He still has to assume he can’t do certain things without permission— despite the recent leniency he has to remember who and _what_ he is.

Aidan has to fiddle with his hands to distract himself from the tightness of his chest. Especially when he sees Master wheeling down the hallway.

Beside her is her mother and a woman in a white coat. Master’s expression is pinched with frustration, and he sees sweat on her brow. She doesn’t look happy. And no one’s helping her. Why is no one helping her?

He’s about to go to her, but then Master turns around, and begins going the opposite direction, the woman in white writing something on a clipboard. Aidan finds himself rooted to the spot, restlessly fiddling with his hands. A good slave goes to his Master, even when unprompted because he needs to be there for her.

But her mother scares him, and she doesn’t explicitly call him forward.

So he stays. He hopes Master won’t be too upset with him. 

Master goes up and down the hallway a couple of times, and he can only assume she’s doing some exercise. From above the stairs he catches a glimpse of a brown set of hair, but it disappears the moment he looks up.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Aidan is nearly given whiplash when he jolts in attention.

Esme hands him a small multicoloured bag.

_ <Sweets.> _ She signs with her free hand, then she stares for a moment before moving her fingers again at his apparent lack of action. _ <Yours.> _

Aidan blinks.

Oh.

Gingerly, he takes a hold of it. It’s light with a thin red ribbon tightly coiled on the top to keep it closed. His hands, he realizes, are still restless as his mind stays on Master and her obvious discomfort in her current position. He thinks about the string he lost here when he… shamefully peed himself. Then he realizes he misses that piece of string and what he used it for, and his hands become more fidgety.

When he looks down at the ribbon he feels a sudden spurt of energy, a sharp sense of exhilaration through his being and his body begins moving on its own.

He takes the ribbon off and ties the ends together, then swiftly loops the ribbon around the back of his hands, then rotates his hands so that it’s wrapped around his wrists as well. Then he catches the strand of the material with his middle fingers. 

It’s all muscle memory at this point.

Soon, he’s got the X of Cat’s Cradle.

Esme’s brows slant upwards, slightly, and she gives him a low whistle of approval.

_ <Smart and talented.> _

And with that, Aidan feels like he’s floating on a cloud.

He then shows Esme many different shapes with Cat’s Cradle.

* * *

Frea hadn’t realized she lacks so much upper body strength. Or perhaps she lost it. She went through the same training like everyone else when she went to the military academy. Her time there may have been brief but she still did _things._ But perhaps that’s what being bedridden does to someone. Air punches can only do so much for her arms and chest.

So she begrudgingly wheels up and down the hall while being monitored by mother and Dr. Kippe.

And it feels like she’s being watched by all the portraits hanging on the wall, too.

The paintings dominant every inch of the hallway. Some of these portraits are centuries old, and yet every colour is bold and painted with such precise lines. There is not a shred of evidence to tell anyone the true age of some of these paintings.

They’re portraits of all previous Valentine Matriarchs, all commissioned during their reigns. Mother’s is here too, somewhere. Frea doesn’t have one, as portraits are only done once the heir takes the Matriarch title.

Not that she’ll ever have that opportunity now.

All these eyes bearing down on her, it reminds Frea of something mother had told her years ago.

_“Your city has its eyes on you, as do your enemies. Don’t forget that.”_

She tenses at the mere memory. Thinking about it more, she could almost snort. Her own long dead ancestors feel like enemies that are sneering down at her. Maybe they’re all rolling in their graves knowing that their illustrious lineage produced such a shameful woman such as herself. 

Frea screws her eyes shut in an attempt to calm and recenter herself. She swallows, thickly, and when she re-opens her eyes she turns around. Despite having two women by her side, there’s an almost suffocating silence as they do laps around this stupid hallway. She wants to believe the quietness is mainly because of Marcus’ and Diana’s absence. Apparently, every time Esme comes over Marcus has to go out and take Diana for a walk— with guards, of course. It’s unsightly for an unmarried man to walk outside unaccompanied— so that the two of them don’t cross paths. Must be something to do with him wanting to get back with Angelea.

She is well aware the stifling stillness isn’t because of her brother not being here but regardless, she wants to convince herself of the lie. It makes things feel less unbearable.

Though the thought helps her very little when it comes to having a semblance of calmness, especially when they edge closer to Esme and Aidan.

She squints. Aidan’s got a ribbon in his hands, and shows a shape to Esme, who then slips her fingers between his to take the ribbon and makes a different form with the material. Aidan smiles. _At_ Esme.

There’s a knife twisting and turning in her gut.

Why—? Why is the only thing that’s on her mind is the word _traitor?_ Why does seeing these two with a frisson of glee make her so fucking angry—

Cat’s Cradle was _hers._ Hers and Aidan’s. _Theirs._ And now he’s just fucking sharing it with someone else.

She had defended Esme and now— _now—_

_Get out before I rip your filthy fucking throat out you fucking bitch._

Frea opens her mouth for a strangled gasp but nothing comes out. Her shoulders are tremendously heavy, weighing her down, leaving her paralyzed as she just sits there while mother speaks with Esme. She doesn’t see Aidan’s immediate look of concern, everything quickly becoming a blur. Things are creeping into her body, her mind is on fire, thoughts burning. 

She slows her breathing to recenter herself, her knuckles turning white as she grips the wheels of her chair even tighter. The sudden fury she had felt quickly turned to embers but it’s still _there._ It’s intermingled with every other possible emotion and it makes her head hazy.

_Oh, Acadia, what… what was that?_

...Maybe she needs a cup of tea to calm herself down.

“Esme will align her visits with whenever I wish to speak with her. We’ve much to discuss, so her attendance should be fairly often.” Mother says above her, and when Frea is finally able to focus she realizes everyone is looking at her.

Mother lifts a single brow. “Do you consent to her visitations?” She asks, her blank words somehow feeling like a test of some kind. “It’s your decision, Frea.”

Frea blinks in quick succession. Her eyes go between Esme and Aidan and she shifts in her seat.

She… wants to say _no._

Because Aidan belongs to her and no one else.

But— she gives her answer before she can think that poisonous and ugly thought.

“Yes, that’s fine.” She says quickly. Mother hums lowly, and just like that Frea is immediately aware she failed the test. Her head— really, her whole body— has an irritating ache and her mind feels like an endless well that she’s falling into.

Nothing she feels makes sense anymore.

But did they ever?

She rubs her forehead and sighs through her nose. Mother and Esme begin talking but she doesn’t hear any of it, presumably it’s about her visits or whatever. Dr. Kippe’s face invades her field of vision when the doctor bends down.

“Are you alright?” She whispers.  
  


Frea grimaces. “I’m fine.”

The expression Dr. Kippe gives her tells Frea she’s wholly unconvinced, but the older woman doesn’t make any further comments. When she flicks her gaze to Aidan, she notes that he’s got a multicoloured bag in his hands that he just fiddles around with. Somehow, that annoys her.

She supposes a lot of things are beginning to irritate her.

Mother and Esme continue to exchange more words, and eventually mother is parting some curtains and glancing outside the window. It’s the evening now, though there’s enough light to get a good view of the front yard.

She clicks her tongue. “I shouldn’t need to suffer having individuals loiter around the front gates as if my home is a cheap Anavellan brothel.” She beckons a guard, “Escort this person off my property.”

At that moment, Esme peeks out the window as well. She squints. “Wait, they’re wearing a military uniform— Lauretta? I think that’s Lauretta!”

Frea’s back becomes straight at the exclamation. Mother’s gaze then falls on her.

“You know her, don’t you?”

“I— Yes. I do. She’s the one who worked on me when… everything happened.” Frea splutters.

“Hmm.” She waves at the guard, “Bring her inside. It would be improper etiquette to not at least extend my thanks to the woman.”

* * *

“Howdy dow— I mean, hello!” Lauretta stomps her feet together in a quick salute, “I’m Lauretta Elader, medic of the 1135th Infantry Regiment! I’m a personable gal who likes playin’ checkers in her free time. Did I mention I’m from up North? ‘Cause I am. From the Lesmia province specifically.”

Frea is unaware of her own smile forming on her face from the ridiculous introduction. 

It’s a blissful distraction from everything else.

“Lauretta, it’s been _days._ What have you been doing this entire time? Why didn’t you take a train back home?”

Lauretta rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. “Well, y’see, I heard some rumours floatin’ around. Like there’s this eerie ghost train called the Midnight Express. It looks normal ‘n shit but when you board the ride goes on forever! And then you die! I was just so spooked I couldn’t bring myself to get on a train.”

There’s silence, save for Esme’s snort.

“Are you… serious?” Frea hedges.

“Well, no. I was just sorta fumblin’ around in the hospital. Helped with patients. But they, uh, kicked me out after a lil’ while, heh. So I’ve been askin’ where you live so I can make sure you’re fine, y’know?” She closes her eyes and smiles almost wistfully, “I washed my face in the fountain. Other than that I haven’t showered. Feel like I’m back home, really.”

Is this woman trying to get kicked out of her damn house? She’s wearing a filthy, odorous uniform and her hair is unruly, really just the picture of someone mother would never want in her home. Tersely, Frea flicks her gaze to mother, but she’s completely impassive. 

“You said you operated on my daughter?”

Lauretta’s back becomes ramrod straight, and for some reason she salutes again.

“Uh huh! I mean, yes ma’am! I made sure she was stable when we came here.”

“And would I be correct to assume that you haven’t spoken to anyone about her condition?”

There’s a slight drop in the air temperature, and while Lauretta may be a bit of a goof, Frea is sure that even she couldn’t miss the underlying threat behind those words. The medic awkwardly clears her throat. 

“Ah, no, no, no. I’m all about that patient-doctor confidentiality thing, y’know? My instructor really drilled that shi— stuff into my head.”

There’s a light twitch on mother’s lips as she chortles lightly, the action so surprising to Frea that she tenses her shoulders. 

“Then I must give you my thanks for taking care of my daughter. Please, come with me to my office. You must be appropriately compensated, and I can’t have you washing your face in a fountain. Saskia, see to it that Lady Elader gets a room at the Viridian Dream Resort for however long she wishes to stay in Lullin.”

Saskia responds with a curt nod, and immediately leaves the foyer.

Lauretta practically _beams_ at that, and her body slackens. With a skip in her step she leans down to speak to Frea.

“Hey, hey, hey. That’s a real fancy shancy hotel ain’t it?” She smirks, “I’m gonne be livin’ like an Arch Priestess, eh? Oh! That reminds me, when I was mullin’ around I kept gettin’ accosted by women sayin’ they’re Arch Priestesses and tryin’ to sell me potions that enhance fertility, attractiveness, skills, and even drastically changin’ appearances! That’s so funky—”

Esme interjects with mirth in her tone, “I can assure you those people are impersonating an Arch Priestess. Scams like that have been an issue recently.”

Lauretta blinks owlishly, then brings her finger to scratch her cheek as she clearly begins to grow a bit flustered.

“...Lauretta,” Frea chides, “Don’t tell me you actually bought one.”

“S-She was a very convincin’ saleswoman! I spent my last dime on it, to get rid of my freckles y’know? It was real fruity.” She gasps, “I just bought overpriced fruit juice didn’t I? Aw shit!”

“How in the world did you get through medical school?”

The medic responds with a guffaw, and Dr. Kippe takes the opportunity to make a comment.

“Lady Elader, if I may, I simply must let you know how impressed I was when I saw how well taken care of Frea was. I’m Dr. Kippe,” she extends her hand out for a shake, “You’ve a lot of talent, young lady. I think you can do great things, your…” She grins, “Your apparent propensity to being scammed aside.”

“Ah,” Lauretta grows slightly redder, “You— You’re _the_ Dr. Kippe? You look way different from the textbooks!” She vigorously shakes the doctor’s hand, “I learned all about you! Shucks, it’s a right honour to meet ya.”

Frea watches the energetic exchange and feels… something uncomfortable fester in her gut.

Dr. Kippe continues, “That whole bit with the Arch Priestess potion is why I think you need some more… training. So, seeing your talent, I want to see it grow and blossom. What say you become my apprentice? Here’s my card, if I’m not here I’m at the University of Lullin. We can discuss this further later. I know I must be unloading a great deal on you all of a sudden! Why don’t you sleep on it.”

Lauretta gapes like a fish, eyes going from her to Esme, then to Frea. Esme jovially smacks her on the back, nearly making the woman topple, and the medic belatedly gets her bearings. 

“A-Ah, golly. That’s— uh, yeah, lemme think about it. I, uh, I need to make a call to my ma…”

“We’ve a phone in my office,” mother says.

Dr. Kippe’s hand is still shaking Lauretta’s, and Frea can see her grip tighten. “Should you become my apprentice, you can visit Lady Valentine a great deal. You and her are friends, correct? I think it would greatly help her recover if you visit every now and then and _chat.”_

A silent conversation seems to pass between the two women, and Frea isn’t quite dumb enough to not know it’s about her. Her eye twitches slightly, but Lauretta’s expression breaks out with a tight-lipped smile and a cocked head. 

“‘Course I’d love to visit my pal,” she leans back down to speak with Frea, “Shit, girl, hope I didn’t look like a complete dullard in front of the doc…” Her voice tapers off as she promptly changes the subject. “Y’know, in my village, everybody gotta share the same phone. I bet you rich folk all have your own phone, huh! No wonder people are sayin’ telegraphs are gonna go outta style!” Practically emanating eagerness, she bounces on her feet. Honestly, Frea’s a little dizzy from everything that’s happening so quickly, especially when everyone begins to move to mother’s office.

Lauretta’s smile then dimples her cheeks when she takes note of Aidan.

“And you! Oh my gosh, you’re so dapper lookin’. You puttin’ on some weight? Good. You look healthy.”

She embraces Aidan with a tight hug, he probably doesn’t understand a word she just said, but regardless his expression becomes just as delighted as her’s. Aidan’s hands continue to fiddle with the ribbon and bag in his hands and Frea just… watches.

Everyone walks in front of her. Lauretta keeps turning around to say something to her. Frea does respond— but… she finds she quickly can’t remember anything. She thinks Lauretta asks her if she can push her chair for her, but she declines the offer. The medic then returns to quipping at Aidan who nods and smiles, utterly oblivious, and Frea thinks she translates here and there but everything is becoming blurry.

Her stumps hurt.

She’s accepted her feelings don’t make sense, but now there’s a feeling of solitude that dominates her heart, clinging to every thread of her being.

Everyone just focuses on _Aidan._ That’s it. No one’s here for a cripple.

_And why would they?_

_You think anyone here actually cares?_

_What if it’s all an act?_

_Do you think they laugh at you when you’re not looking?_

With that seed planted into her mind— she finds she can’t stop thinking about it.

Everyone’s right in front of her, and yet they all feel so far away.

* * *

Despite the reunion, not much happens for the rest of the evening. Lauretta and Frea talk of inane prattle. Mostly of Lauretta being lost in Lullin. Then she leaves to go to her hotel, promising to visit. She hugged Aidan. So did Esme.

Frea couldn’t stop thinking about that, either.

* * *

Frea remembers another time mother took her to the cathedral. There was a sermon happening as usual, but they were not part of the congregation. Instead, they were high above everyone, on a balcony area only they were allowed to be in. Frea doesn’t remember how old she was in this memory, but she was small enough to be held in mother’s arms.

_“The larger the crowd, the easier they are to influence.”_ Mother said, her eyes surveyed the crowd beneath them. On the main stage an Arch Priestess paced back and forth as she extolled Acadia’s holy preachings. Admittingly, Frea doesn’t remember what this sermon was about. Maybe that was a bit blasphemous.

_“The masses are like an animal that obey its instincts. They have a simple system of thinking and feeling. You see?”_ Mother pointed with her chin, _“When they are in a state of fanatic devotion for Acadia, they will be receptive to anything you say. It will be as if they were in a hypnotic influence.”_

Frea looked at where mother stared at. Everyone below them had the same face— one of rapt attention. 

_“You need to use that fact when you’re older, Frea. The gap between the nobility and commoners is growing smaller with each generation. Especially with merchants becoming as wealthy as they are. That’s a problem for the Empress. We cannot allow that, can we, Frea?”_ Every time mother took her somewhere for her ‘lessons’ Frea was never really sure that her mother was ever actually talking to her despite using her name constantly.

_“Acadia likes order. The Empress likes order. Use the crowd to keep that order. Acadia made hierarchy for a reason.”_

Frea lies on the mattress, staring at the blank ceiling. ‘A state of fanatic devotion for Acadia,’ huh. She mulls it over, eyes quickly flicking to the camera and photos on the small table beside her bed. 

She wonders, briefly, how much photography was truly meant to be a form of escape for her. Maybe she had meant to truly use it as a way to honour Acadia, and to use that to… sway the masses like mother wanted. How much of what she did was meant to impress mother, she wonders. Aidan had been her muse, how useful would he have been about this apparent gap problem mother had mentioned?

How much of anything she’s ever done did she do for herself? If someone asked her who Frea is—was— she… she—

She doesn’t have an answer. She wonders if she really had any identity in the first place.

_“So why don’t you just die?”_

...This is a moot point to think about. Nothing she had done had any logic to it and now look where she is.

She should sleep.

...She doesn’t want to sleep. She doesn’t want to see… the other Frea in her dreams again.

But she also doesn’t want to think about her photos any further. 

The camera and her photos remain on the desk. And they remain untouched.

And Frea remains in the bed.

* * *

_“How many times do I have to tell you what you can and cannot do? Are you fucking retarded?”_

Aidan kept his eyes shut in a vain attempt to ignore Dark Hair’s slurred voice completely as if she didn’t exist. But she _does_ exist. Or did. And this was a real memory playing out in horrible accuracy.

A backhanded slap to his cheek forced his eyes open, and his previous Master jeered at his inattentiveness. 

_“I know you can’t talk. But are you touched in the head too? Huh? Huuuuh?”_

Fuck, she reeked of whiskey, and the smell made Aidan wince. Her hand then slithered through his hair, and her surprising strength threw him to the ground. _“Who gave you permission to move the piano? Who fucking told you to do that? ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t.”_

He just moved it to get better access for cleaning. That’s all. 

And then the next thing he knew Dark Hair was breathing down his neck.

Aidan swallowed, and he nodded as best he could manage with his body laid like a stone on the ground. What he did was wrong. He should have asked for permission. He can’t just _do_ things. He disrespected his Master in such an unthinkable manner and his reaping what he sowed. His lips quivered and all he could produce was a meager gasp when Dark Hair kicked him in the stomach.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid—_

He dared looked upwards only to find Dark Hair smirking down at him.

_“You’re such a glutton for punishment. Fucking dumbass.”_

And then her foot came down to his face. It was far from the first time she stomped on his head, and it wouldn’t be the last.

* * *

Aidan wakes up with a start. There’s silence, for a moment, as he lays there. He thinks about his continued selfishness, of how he continues to do things Dark Hair would have hit him for.

He’s still doing things without permission. Hugging Esme. Picking up Master.

That shouldn’t— isn’t?— allowed. But he does it anyway.

Aidan presses his face against the cold wooden floor. He doesn’t remember getting out of the bed.

Master and Esme are different. Lauretta, too— what a joy it is to see her again! He can do things. They like it when he does it! He’s being good!

_But you shouldn’t. You forget yourself._

_You’re being selfish._

He feels himself sigh with a quiver in his exhalation— a quiver that’s an undercurrent of fear. He’s been granted so much leniency, but even the nicest people have their limits. He thinks.

Limits he may be pushing with his horrible antics. 

But Esme called him smart and talented. Two words he would have never associated himself with.

_She just finds you amusing. Like you’re a plaything. She’ll get bored._

Of course when it’s night and he’s left alone with his thoughts is when he’s doubting everything he’s done. Will this become a nightly occurrence now? He should just be like a puppet— with Master as the puppeteer. Only move when she wants it.

...When it’s morning, will he still feel this way? He’s unsure. He’s already assailed with the desire to go to her room again and kneel. She didn’t order that. Should he? Should he not—?

“Do you usually sleep on the floor? That doesn’t look very comfortable.”

Aidan blinks. Then he blinks again. He turns his head slowly, looking upwards to see Master’s brother looking down on him. It’s Nathaniel again.

He’s too surprised to get up, and soon enough Nathaniel casually strolls in and sits next to him.

“I read in a book that it takes 335 hours to learn Utritian fluently. It’s not that long because it’s similar to Asnainian.”

Aidan blinks once more and—

Wait a minute.

He lifts himself up with his elbows, eyes wide and jaw gaping. He understood him! Completely! 

Nathaniel’s lips curl upwards when he registers Aidan’s surprise. He leans forward, “I’m pretty invisible, you know? No one really pays attention to me. So I took my sister’s books and I learned. For three years! Now I can speak Utritian and no one knows.” He breaks out in a fit of soft giggles, “I did it because I was bored but it’s pretty useful now. I don’t know why my sister is lying to you when Marcus talks, but I wanna find out. I don’t like not knowing things.”

Aidan has no idea what’s happening but like with everyone else he doesn’t understand, he merely nods.

“I don’t like it when it’s loud. So I like you. Because you can’t talk, so you’re not loud.”

Aidan can’t really help but wrinkle his nose at that.

Nathaniel rhythmically rubs his own knuckles with his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. He doesn’t stop as he continues talking.

“Sometimes I like to sneak out at night. That’s also why I like you can’t talk, so you don’t tell anyone. _And,”_ He leans in further, his gaze boring into Aidan’s and he suddenly finds it really difficult to keep eye-contact. “I need you to teach me sign language.”

Isn’t that… exactly what Master said when she started learning how to sign?

Goodness, Master and her brothers are just so alike!

“Told you I don’t like not knowing. And well, I also need it for something else,” Nathaniel says with a twinge of pride in his voice as he straightens his back. He continues to rub his knuckles. “Anyway, in exchange for teaching me sign language, I can teach you how to draw.”

This conversation just continues to take Aidan for a loop. He pinches his brows together slightly, and Master’s brother continues.

“I read in a book that it’s nice to give something back to a person when they help you. So, I’ll teach you how to draw. I’m really good at drawing.”

How many times has Aidan blinked owlishly during this conversation? It sure feels like a lot.

Maybe Nathaniel should use Master’s sign language book if he likes to read so much.

“I’ve seen what you do with that ribbon.” Nathaniel quips, his smile becoming something... Softer? Genuine? “You move it around your hands. You’re pretty fidgety a lot of the time. I do that too.” He lifts his hands up, still rubbing his knuckles. “I do it too. Keeps me calm when I’m not doing stuff. You’re like me, yeah?” 

Aidan has no idea how he’s supposed to respond. He’s not like Nathaniel, he supposes, he’s a slave. But they’re both men. Maybe that’s what he means? Maybe they have more similarities than differences? 

“So. Some nights, not all nights, I want you to come to my room and I teach you stuff. And then you teach me stuff. That’s good, right? Don’t worry, you can still sneak off and visit my sister.” He brings a finger to his lips, “I don’t judge, heh. You do whatever it is you do there. Even if Frey-Frey has been such a miser recently, but that’s a different issue so whatever.”

Hopping back on his feet, Nathaniel begins making his way to the door. “I’ll see you another night then. I’ve gotta go now. Bye.” When he slowly opens the door so as to not make any creaks, he throws out another comment. “Oh, and you should try sleeping on the bed sometime. It’s there for a reason.”

And with that, he leaves. 

For a moment, Aidan wonders if that conversation actually just happened and he didn’t hallucinate everything. Scratching his head, he supposes he can accommodate his request, so long as it doesn’t conflict with Master’s orders. 

The proposal swirls in his mind as he stands, extinguishing his prior thoughts.

Learning to draw doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe he can use that to impress Master in some way and make her happy. 

...And… it might not be so bad to be in the company of another man he understands every once and a while.

_So selfish._

Somehow, the word doesn’t have as much bite to it now. It’s not important right now. What is important is going to Master to be ready for her needs during the morning. So he tip toes towards her room.

But not before taking the ribbon so he has something to keep his fidgety fingers busy. He takes the bag of sweets, too, since he simply can’t eat any of these until Master has her share first.

He’s being good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said Frea will have to battle her ~inner demons~ I meant that quite literally because I thrive off the drama.
> 
> I know this may be hard to believe, but there will indeed be a happy ending. Eventually. And Frea won't be like this for long, either! She's a good person deep down, I swear! I just like making my characters work for their happy ending. :^)
> 
> Also tfw a chapter is 11,000 fucking words and yet you feel like there's barely any progress in it. Oh well. At least there's plenty of angst. Y'know, I wanted to add another scene with Lauretta and Esme having a proper chat with Frea and I could use that for worldbuilding/lore/character development and so on. But I figured I'd just chuck that for the next chapter. Finally the entire cast is here and they'll be sticking around until the end. Woohoo.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was so much more I wanted to put in this chapter, but I guess I'll be splitting it into two.

Lauretta visits her early in the morning. She’s accompanied by Dr. Kippe who’s doing paperwork and watching off to the side, similar to what Saskia usually did. Frea’s begun some of her physical exercises by moving her legs in circles, Lauretta saying occasional words of encouragement every now and then.

Aidan isn’t here. He was initially, but apparently now his lessons will be done in his room because it gets too busy here.

That… she doesn’t want to think about it. Her gut feels uncomfortable at the thought but she’s just going to chalk it up to the fact she hasn’t had her breakfast yet. Just— stop thinking about him and she won’t feel quite as miserable.

_ But he’s with someone who isn’t you. _

She grimaces, and now she’s beginning to wonder if this nearly permanent feeling of irritation is directed at herself or everyone else. Her expression isn’t missed by Lauretta, who lifts a brow at her. What she’d give to have her mind give her a brief reprieve every one and a while— but she supposes at least her sleep was blissfully absent of any dreams.

“You good? Not hurtin’ are ya?” In fact, Frea  _ is  _ hurting, but it’s a far cry from some of the pain she felt yesterday. It feels like someone is pressing onto her stumps, but nothing too extraneous. It’s discomfort at most.

So she shakes her head. “...Just getting tired from moving a lot.”

At the very least Lauretta doesn’t look like a homeless soldier now. She’s wearing a cotton blouse with long, loose sleeves with a draw string and a charming ruffle on the front, and she’s got black pants with golden buttons. It’s a popular style from the East, and these types of shirts were a bit of a fad in Asnain a few years ago, though it’s a rare sight to see someone wearing this now. And she’s combed her hair, too. Frea thinks this might actually be the first time she’s seen her chestnut hair not being an unruly mess on top of her head. 

She smirks. “Where’d you get these clothes? Compliments from the resort you’re staying at?”

“Naw, these are from Esme! Well, Esme’s daughter, I think. She’s not in the country right now so I’m borrowing her wardrobe.” She puffs out her chest like a proud bird, “Geez, even a country bumpkin like me can see these are outta style. But hey, it’s comfy, so I sure can’t complain.”

Frea stops moving her legs in circles, now bringing both up and down in slow intervals. 

“I take it that you’re accepting Dr. Kippe’s offer of being her apprentice.”

“Oh hell yeah. When I called my ma she was like,” she crosses her arms, brows pinching together as her voice raises an octave to imitate an old woman, “She was like, ‘Lau, if you don’t take this bull by the horns I’m gonna take the first train to Lullin and I’m gonna kick your ass.’”

A single chuckle comes from Dr. Kippe.

“So here I am. I mean, I got free accommodation ‘n shit at a fancy hotel and I got an internship! I’d be real dumb not to accept it. We’re still workin’ out logistics and whatnot, but yeah.” She winks, “This’ll look mighty fine on my resume.”

There’s a slight burn in Frea’s leg and lower abdomen now— but it’s the comfortable kind. One where her muscles are tiring from the exercise but will eventually grow stronger because of it. It’s a welcome reprieve to, well, literally everything that’s been happening.

Frea’s stomach growls and she squirms in her bed to try to silence the rumbling. She feels her face grow slightly warm, and apparently her brother has secret psychic abilities because at that very moment, Marcus pries the door open and rolls in a tea cart.

He lets out a small squeak upon seeing Lauretta, and lowers his head when he comes closer. They’re having eggs on toast and peeled guava this morning, and when he takes his seat Frea swears he can see his pupils dilate.

Well, Lauretta  _ is  _ wearing his ex-fiance’s clothes, but still, that seems like a bit of an extreme reaction.

She stops her exercise to sit up. “Nathaniel not coming today?”

“O-Oh… no, he was still asleep when I checked up on him.” He says softly. He’s wearing a full ruffled coat, and while he usually sits straight with shoulders broad, he’s hunching just slightly with one of his hands close to his mouth.

She knows her brother well enough to know what he’s doing. What is it he likes to call it?  _ ‘Expert techniques to garner a woman’s attention,’  _ or something to that effect. He likes to compare it to male birds attracting a female, with his eye-catching clothes meant to be his feathers— he wears a lot of layers to supposedly leave things to the imagination, acts demure and tries to be more soft spoken to flare up a woman’s natural protective instincts.

“Frey-Frey, I didn’t know you had a friend over.” He smiles coyly, “When on earth were you going to introduce her to me, hmm?”

Oh, brother.

“She came over last night when you were out with Diana. She’s Dr. Kippe’s apprentice, so she’ll be visiting often.”

He flutters his eyes, “I’m Marcus, Frey-Frey’s brother. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

“Howdy,” Lauretta responds, causing Marcus to immediately blink in quick succession— evidently surprised and momentarily perplexed by her accent. “I’m Lauretta Elader. I was with Frey-Frey in Utreau as a medic.” Her lips curl in a quizzical smirk when she uses Frea’s nickname.

“Elader…” He places his fingers just below his chin in thought, probably trying to remember if he’s heard her name anywhere before, “Frey-Frey must have told you all about the Valentine lineage. What’s your family history, if I may ask? Your ancestors must hail from the North, correct? I’ve never heard of your name before, but I’m sure the Eladers must have a varied and storied history!”

Lauretta cocks a single brow at that.

“Back over yonder… in a time before we Northerners knew what electricity was…” She brings her voice down low, spreading her arms like she’s recounting an ancient fable over a campfire, “We all came together to record our names and stake our claim over the land… We had to pick our names! We had to give ourselves an  _ identity!” _

Marcus lets out a small  _ ‘oh!’  _ and covers his mouth, his eyes bright and excited.

“So my great-great-great…” Her voice tapers off, and Lauretta takes the moment to count her fingers, “Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother came forth with a quill in her hand…” She stops then, letting the suspense grow and Frea has to suppress the urge to snort at the display.

Her brother, meanwhile, seems star struck with the story and leans forward in anticipation.

“...She wanted to write ‘Leader’ to make us the real big shots around the place. But she misspelled it so now we Eladers have been the village jesters for generations.”

She lazily leans back in the chair with her arms crossed, jutting her chin upwards with a prideful face as if she didn’t just espouse something completely ridiculous.

Now wearing a puzzled expression, Marcus’ mouth is pursed but slightly open and loose.

“O-Oh?” Is all he manages to get out.

Frea decides she needs to save her brother from all this.

“Marcus,” she chides, in a voice similar to how playfully admonished Lauretta last evening, “You said yourself she’s from the North. You should know she’s not a noble.”

The medic throws her head back with a bark of laughter, “Yeah, sorry to disappoint. I’m part of the common folk. I dunno shit about my family history. We just raise sheep.”

An embarrassed blush dots his cheeks that quickly bloom into a full blown, sweltering heat wave bursting through his pores. 

“H-Huh..? Whuh…” He splutters, “N-N-N-No, no, I d-don’t think you’re a disappointment-—!! I’m sorry for being rude!” His dreams of having Lauretta as someone courtable apparently dashed, Marcus fumbles around with his hands, and begins to quickly pour tea to calm himself. All the while his face just looks like it’s  _ burning  _ with how scarlet his cheeks become.

“C-Commoner or not, it’s still a pleasure to meet you.” He says softly, giving Frea a quick annoyed glare for letting him make a fool of himself, “It’s good that Frey-Frey has a friend who can keep her company. I was worried she would become far too lonely being holed up here all day.”

“Aw yeah, she’s gonna be stuck with me for a while now. I’m sure she’ll be sick of good ol’ Lauretta in… about a week, heh. She was always tryin’ to get rid of me in Utreau.”

He pinches his brows together and waggles an admonishing finger at Frea. “Now don’t  _ you  _ be rude. She’s trying to help, I expect you to give her your best manners!”

“Marcus, she’s just teasing.”

She sees his brow twitch as his jaw becomes slack, with a look of slight mortification on his face as he attempts to regain a semblance of propriety by straightening his back and covering his mouth with his hand. “Goddess, it’s like I’m a teenager again and my kid sister is teasing me relentlessly. So cruel...” 

A faintly amused chuckle escapes Frea. “You’re just clueless about everything.”

Marcus pouts with a  _ hmph  _ and they begin to indulge themselves by having breakfast. Her brother watches with something akin to morbid curiosity as Lauretta basically devours her toast, omelete, and guava in one bite. She then guzzles her tea down noisily, having finished her breakfast in a fraction of a time it would take Frea and Marcus to complete their meals.

“Wha—?” Lauretta says in between chewing and swallowing, “Papaw always told me that the greatest compliment a man could get is if a woman eats his food quickly.” She winks at Marcus’ direction. “My compliments to the chef.”

He clears his throat awkwardly and turns his head away, “I-I’m flattered, Lady Elader, but the servants made the breakfast, not I.”

“Aw shucks. Food’s still good though. Better than up North, we just eat sheep for breakfast, lunch, dinner and desert.”

Curiosity apparently piqued, Marcus glances back at Lauretta, “...If I may ask, how is it up North? I’ve never been.”

“Cold. And full of sheep, but I’m sure you already know that.” A toothy smile etches its way onto her expression, and she points to the gap where one of her canines would have been, “I got kicked in the face by a rowdy ewe and lost one of my teeth. Completely knocked me out, too…” She then lowers her voice, similar to earlier, and her eyes become serious, “And then, when I woke up, I realized I was in a coma for two years!”

“T-T-Truly?!”

Frea makes a mental note to try to teach Marcus to not be so gullible next time. 

She’s starting to see  _ why  _ a simple stablegirl was able to convince him to have a romp in the hay. Still, the quick sense of camaraderie the two of them have makes Frea’s chest feel… lighter, in a way. She supposes Lauretta just has a natural talent for this sort of thing.

  
After taking a sip of her tea, she runs a hand through her hair and soon there’s a loose strand between her fingers.

Marcus’ expression lights up, and he produces a small ceramic cup with a glass lid. Inside are clumps of hair, and Frea’s strand joins the pile. When he sets it to the side on the tea cart, Lauretta literally gags, and her next words are about as elegant as the noise she just made.

“The hell?”   
  


Frea snorts. “Judging by that reaction, I take it Northern men aren’t in the habit of creating hair wreaths.”

Lauretta narrows her eyes, watching the ceramic container like she’s suspicious of it. “Allow me to reiterate. The hell?”

“Oh, it’s a lovely and ancient artform, Lady Elader,” Marcus interjects, “With wire and string you weave hair into shapes! I enjoy weaving hair together to make them look like flowers and pinecones! I do hope that Aidan fellow will allow me to collect his loose hair. His golden locks would be perfect for a pair of laurels!” His lips curl in a sheepish smile, “Though I am still trying to find a way to politely ask for his hair. I suppose it would be a strange request out of the blue.”

“You rich folk got way too much free time. In the North men are busy like women. They do blacksmithin’ n shit.”

That gets both Frea’s and Marcus’ attention. 

“Men work in the North?” She asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, not a lot, I guess. Like… how do I explain this… We women are expected to go out a lot, y’know? We start apprenticeships outside our villages and travel. Men stay home. If a job involves travelin’, it’s women’s work. If it’s sedentary, it’s men’s work. Stuff like blacksmithin’ and cookin’ are somethin’ men do ‘cause they do it at home. Huntin’ is a woman’s job ‘cause she leaves the village.”

Marcus looks at her with an almost skeptical gaze, probably wondering if she’s joking around again. “I can’t imagine doing something like blacksmithing. Sounds like something far too extraneous. Surely no man has enough dexterity to actually make something like armour?” Then he puts his hands on his hips, voice becoming a tad prideful. 

“Aha, and you only say that about hair wreaths because you’ve never seen one for yourself! I have many wreaths framed in my room, if you come see them you’ll see why it’s such a coveted artform.”

Just as quickly as when it left, Lauretta’s pompous smirk returns. 

“Invitin’ me to your room already? Golly, I’m mighty flattered.”

With a squeak, Marcus’ blush also returns with a vengeance. He quickly blabbers off several apologies and Frea would make a comment about his face being as hot as a skillet, but she’s actually feeling a little sorry for her brother. After a few more inconsequential quips and conversation, he finishes his breakfast, and there’s a knock at the door.

A guard with Diana on a leash soon enters, and Marcus pouts.

“I suppose that signifies my leave.” He turns to Lauretta, glancing quickly downwards in an apparent bout of shyness, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elader.” Then he nods towards Frea, “I’ll see you in a few hours, Frey-Frey. Take care of yourself!” When he begins to exit, he trips over his shoelaces, which promptly encourages him to basically sprint out of the room.

And if he’s going to be leaving to walk Diana, that must mean Esme is coming. 

Something about that makes her feel unsettled.

But Lauretta prevents her from mulling it over for too long.

“So when were you gonna tell me that your brother is built like a mountain?”

Frea chortles lightly under her breath. Well, she supposes Marcus is indeed… mountain-like. In addition to his height, he’s got a decent set of muscle under his layers of clothes, probably from his gardening and the upkeep and repairs he does for his aviary. Now that she thinks about it, her brother is a talented carpenter seeing how he built the thing in the first place— he did and continues to do everything for it as he’s always adding adjustments such as extra shrubbery or making it larger to accommodate even more birds. Though he seldom mentions that fact to women since he believes it to be an unmanly hobby and therefore unattractive.

“Do you usually give a man hell when you meet him for the first time? I was worried you were going to give him a heart attack.” Frea questions.

“Hell? Now that’s just bein’ dramatic! I’ll have you know I was bein’ personable. I’m a bonafide maneater, remember?” She leans in, eyebrows waggling as she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, apparently still thinking of Marcus’ physique, “Ain’t nothin’ more beautiful in this world than a man’s toned biceps.”

Frea fixes her with a  _ look  _ to tell her she’s resolutely unimpressed as she deadpans, “Keep speaking like that and I can’t guarantee my mother won’t throw you out because your influence is going to abrogate my poor brother’s integrity and purity.”

“Naw, I’m sure mamaw Val—”

Frea cringes.

“Please don’t call my mother that.”

Lauretta responds with a quick guffaw, “Hah! Fair enough. But I’m good at gettin’ people to like me. I just got that irresistible charm. Say, about that hair wreath thing… do you also use pubic—”

She’s interrupted by Dr. Kippe clearing her throat.

Right. She’s still here.

Lauretta’s voice dies in her throat with a strangled gasp, and she quickly gets out of her seat in an animated display, and her next words quickly tumble out of her mouth.

“Oh, right, right, right. You've finished eating, yeah? Then let’s practice gettin’ you on your chair. Tell me if your stomach cramps or anythin’ like that.”

And just like that, Frea returns to her physical therapy. For the first time in a long while, she actually feels comfortable in her own skin. Maybe Lauretta  _ does  _ have that irresistible charm she mentioned. Definitely an expert on distracting people, she’ll have to ask her where she got that talent later. She even managed to forget Esme’s coming over for a fraction of a second.

Frea wonders if… she would have felt this way at all if Aidan still took his lessons in the same room as her.

She thinks everyone might feel far away, like they did last night.

_ Why does everything have to come back to him? _

She banishes the thought before it can continue to sour her mood. Lauretta keeps chatting her ear off and she welcomes it, and when she glances at Dr. Kippe, Frea sees she’s wearing a knowing smile for reasons she is unaware of.

* * *

Esme sets up a game.

Aidan watches as she places a black and white board on the floor, then sets up a series figurines of the same colour. On his side are the white pieces, while Esme has the black ones. He takes special note of a figurine that has a horse’s head. He decides that one is his favourite.

She sets back after finishing, and Aidan hopes she will speak to him. He wants to put Saskia’s lessons to good use.

Though, instead, she signs.

_ <Chess.> _ She says, pointing to the board game.

_ Ah,  _ he thinks. He’s seen this before. Dark Hair used to play it, though he was never allowed to have a close look at it. She moves the pieces in the front row—  _ rooks,  _ she soon calls them— and she takes both a black and white rook, making them hop across the board like a rabbit. Then, the white piece lands on the same as the black, and she places her rook off the board and onto the floor.

_ <You capture your opponent’s pieces by moving your pieces on the same square as them.> _

He nods vigorously, perhaps  _ too  _ vigorously, but he can’t really help it. There’s an electrifying spark of excitement that courses through him that causes his fingertips to shake slightly. He had distracted himself with the ribbon on his hands— evidently Nathaniel was right, he  _ is  _ fidgety— and now he wishes to begin moving his pieces and begin playing in earnest.

Esme places a book in front of him, one with many images. There’s a twitch on his lips. Master, Esme and he supposes Marcus have a book of sign language, and now he will have a book of chess, it would seem. He almost cautiously flips through the pages, seeing illustrations of different types of moves and what he assumes are the game’s rules. It’s in Asnainian, and he knows he’ll be using this to practice reading and learning chess.

The two of them ignore the more complicated looking moves, and opt to just stick with moving their rooks and taking each other’s squares. Aidan quickly gets the hang of it, everytime Esme moves her piece, he immediately moves his within a fraction of a second. Each time he does his turn with excited fervour, Esme grins.

It makes Aidan think about how her smile used to be an adrenaline spike to him— she was an  _ enemy.  _ An Asnainian in his previous Master’s home, and also someone who had obvious rank. Her presence used to be like that of a predator baring its teeth.

Now— there’s something anticipatory in how he searches for her smiling at him. It makes him feel like he’s accomplished something important, something to be coveted, something to take pride in.

They continue on, and after a while Esme observes the board, now only having a single white rook.

_ <You beat me,> _ she signs, then places a hand over her heart dramatically to pantomime her supposed defeat. Then she pokes at her head and says something he  _ understands. _

“Smart.”

There’s such sincerity to her voice that Aidan is initially unaware of how to appropriately respond. It’s— like whiplash, for a moment. It doesn’t feel real. There’s none of the sarcastic jeers and mockery he’s just come to expect from older women like her. Maybe… she just thinks he’s smart. 

For a second, it just doesn’t feel  _ right.  _ There’s a conflict inside of him, like he’s in a futile dream and he instinctively wants to scold himself.

But Esme’s growing smile doesn’t let him do just that— she knows he understood her just now. “Great job, kid,” she then says, the almost dream-like validation making him feel a little dizzy. It makes his hands a bit restless, though not with anxiety. Instead of a ribbon, his fingers idly fiddles with a chess piece that has a horse head.

Esme flips through the chess book, and then she begins teaching him new moves. Every time, her voice is calm and collected, and always showering him with praise. Cheering him on. Not once does her face possess a sneer, or anything that makes him even the slightest bit fearful.

Aidan’s chest grows tight.

And he thinks about her question. About him feeling safe. He thinks it might be a paradoxical thing to think of— that this woman with the scarred face is… protecting him, in a strange way. Keeping an eye on him, putting blankets on top of him, giving him sweets and games. This woman who looks so  _ scary  _ is anything but. Even with the frightening meeting they had, she had been nothing but gentle with him. It feels like something that should be grotesquely unnatural but instead—  _ instead— _

He thinks that Esme feels like safety.

* * *

How long has it been since Frea just leisurely sat outside? 

She breathes in deeply, finally inhaling some fresh air and just… relaxing. She’s in her wheelchair with a set of blankets over her legs, a cup of hot chocolate placed on the garden table in front of her. The surface of the table is brightly painted, upon it is the image of a robin in snow, a symbol of life amid the frigid Asnainian winters. It’s something Nathaniel painted just because he could, the end result being a bird drawn in such shocking detail that it looks like it could fly off the piece of furniture.

It really is a shame he’s such a recluse.

On her lap is the most recently printed newspaper. She had nonchalantly read some of it, the first few pages being littered with first hand accounts of soldiers apparently witnessing holy visions of Acadia leading them to battle, and there’s been a spurt of environmental charities heading to Utreau for the endangered animals affected by the war; one of which being a species of bovine with three gigantic horns on its head that has historically been used as battering rams to break down gates. They were used as the Utritian version of cavalry as well, though they were decimated by Asnainian tanks.

It makes her think of some of the birds Marcus has in his aviary, he’s got some Utritian species there. Some of which are also endangered. Then, she promptly thinks of Lauretta because the woman is currently skulking around the edges of the aviary. She can’t go in since Marcus has the keys and he’s still walking Diana, though she can see the fowls through the mesh cage.

“These are a couple of funky feathered fellas,” Lauretta calls out, and Frea briefly wonders if she heard the woman correctly. She really needs to stop being surprised by her… colourful vocabulary. 

Then Lauretta turns around in several different directions as she takes note of the rest of the garden.

She looks and sounds exasperated when she hollers back at Frea.

“Nobles are ridiculous! What do you need a whole ass pond the size of a lake for? And with a bridge and everything? And all these dang flower beds and everything being so manicured… Y’all got so much time on your hands! Do you know how much of this could be farm land? I could raise sheep and cows and pigs here. Yeesh.” She then begins walking further off, inspecting each inch of the garden and making flabbergasted comments.

Beside Frea, Esme chuckles. When she breathes in, Frea gets a whiff of the food being cooked in the kitchen. It smells spicy. Aidan must be cooking something again, accompanied by Saskia. Dr. Kippe is apparently doing stuff for mother, so it’s just the three of them in the garden, along with the guards.

For a moment, in this stillness, Frea actually thinks everything isn’t so…  _ terrible.  _ That maybe, just for a short second, she can forget about her current circumstances. 

“I think we might have the first male chess grandmaster in the making,” Esme muses, “Aidan’s taken quite a liking for the game. I think he must have gotten bored with those puzzles I gave him in Utreau so he jumped at the chance to try something else. Thinking of introducing him to checkers later.”

And just like that, Frea can feel her mood already souring. Her eye twitches, and her jaw tenses. Again with the conflicting emotions, again with the— the want, the  _ desire  _ to go to the kitchen, grab him by the hair, and throw him in front of Esme and  _ ‘he’s mine and don’t you fucking forget it.’ _

She blinks. 

A wave of emotion swamps her, so quickly and so intently that Frea can’t pinpoint a specific feeling. Just an urge. And the realization that she just somehow made herself speechless with a single thought. The tension in her body makes her legs hurt, and her mind plummets downward into less and less light, and darkness beyond measure. It’s almost like— like she’s in that void from her nightmares again.

She exhales heavily, taking her mug and quickly drinking some hot chocolate to warm herself up.

_ Calm down,  _ she chides herself,  _ stop it. _

There’s a cackling in the back of her mind.

Her irritation must be palpable, because Esme pinches her brows in a look of concern, her voice becoming softer.

“You alright?”

Frea throws the question back at her with perhaps too much bite in her voice. “How about  _ you?” _

Esme visually inspects her with a long, penetrating gaze, which then causes Frea to squirm in her seat.

The older woman heaves a weary sigh. “If you don’t want me around, then please, tell me. You’ve gone through more than any twenty year old should, and I understand it’s been stressful. It’s my fault and I accept the responsibility. If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I understand and I won’t hold it against you. I will leave if it will help your recovery.”

At that rehearsed preamble, Frea’s jaw becomes slack and her mind flutters with brief confusion. 

“I— no, I… I consented to your visits. It’s alright.”

Esme doesn’t look very convinced.

“You’ve given me some pretty good death glares every time I come over. It’s okay, like I said, I take responsibility for all this. I deserve whatever resentment you give me.” Her expression hardens, “It’s alright if you don’t want me around. Please don’t feel obligated to entertain my visits, but please know that I will do everything in my power to do right by you for as long as I live.”

At her stern, yet soft, gaze Frea’s limbs lock and tense, air frozen in her lungs, but she forces herself to stay still. Like attempting to stay still with no reaction when having her fingers crushed by a hammer.

She’s beginning to quickly tire of feeling like this.

Frea takes another of her drink, trying to recenter herself.

“It’s just…” she swallows, “I’ve been dealing with a lot, and these emotions haven’t… been manifesting themselves very elegantly.” Well, that’s  _ not  _ untruthful, even though she’s omitting the name of a certain someone. But that’s probably the most she can actually manage to force out for now.

Esme purses her lips. “I understand. If you need space, just tell me.”

What good would space do anyway? In the distance she can hear the leaves rustle from the breeze, and the birds in the aviary chirp. It should be relaxing. It  _ was  _ relaxing just moments ago. The very notion of leisure has quickly become meaningless, and if her mind should linger on such ideas they start to feel like cruel tricks, as cruel as any desert mirage.

Frea knows she will likely find herself in the black void in her dreams tonight.

Time for a subject change.

“How is your daughter?” Frea asks dully.

Esme huffs. “Let’s just say I’m glad she’s currently hobbled up in the Southern Isles. She tries to keep a strong face, but I can tell from her letters alone that she’s… not taking the whole thing very well. I guess it’s a small miracle my husband died last year, since this nonsense would have given him a heart attack anyway.” She leans back on her chair, lips forming in a mirthless smile. “Your mother is really tearing me a new asshole.”

It’s such an unbelievably crass way to put it that Frea almost chokes on her drink.

“Heh, guess I shouldn’t be so uncouth, huh? Especially with—” Esme points at two guards behind her with her thumb, “—tweedle dee and tweedle dum here reporting everything to your mother. But there wouldn’t be much point downplaying it. I’ll be lucky to still be a noble at the end of all this.”

Frea frowns. “What do you mean? What is my mother doing?”

“...You don’t know?” Now as it’s Esme’s turn to frown as she shakes her head, “Every time I come here I have to give her a fairly hefty cheque. Money for your recovery, she claims. She’s made it pretty clear if I don’t comply some bad shit will happen. Heh, Damaris has always been pretty good when it comes to threats. She’s really running my wells dry.” Her humourless smile etches its way back to her face.

“She is… extorting you…?”   
  


“I’ll be lucky if I don’t file for bankruptcy by the end of all this. Really, that would almost be a reprieve in its own way, since if I do I’ll lose my noble status. That wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe becoming a commoner will be good since I’ve never had any love for the shitty politics the nobility likes to get into.” She tilts her head, eyes seeming to look right through Frea, “Don’t tell me you're actually surprised about this? The moment my military rank was stripped away from me it should have been obvious where I was headed.”

Frea glances down. She finds she’s not surprised in the slightest. The Winthrope’s enjoy—or enjoyed?— a fairly decent sized territory in their town Boroughton that’s further to the West. Their claim to fame is that they own pretty much the entire silk industry in Asnain, so there’s certainly no shortage of wealth to be had. But for them to already be struggling? And so quickly?

Mother must be giving them hell. Frea wouldn’t be surprised if she’s using the Cult to do some seedy, illegal business to put further pressure onto the Winthropes. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done this. It fits her namesake quite well— Damaris is the goddess of the hunt. Once mother sees an opportunity to get rid of competition— or ‘enemies’ as she ostensibly calls them— she’ll tear them asunder. They’re weaknesses to be culled for the sake of the Empress.

Her thumb rubs against the rim of her cup and she watches her hot chocolate swirl around.

She’s not sure how to respond. Or if there’s a proper way to respond in the first place. 

So she murmurs the only thing she can think of.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault.” Esme replies, though her tone is pointed.

Then they sit there in prolonged silence. It feels like a long time, and soon enough Frea is finished with her drink. The smell from the kitchen becomes more pronounced and before she knows it a dish of spicy beef stew is placed in front of her.

She blinks in surprise, turning her head to see Aidan looking at her expectantly. She notices in his hands are wrapped sweets, probably the same Esme gave him. He places it by her soup bowl and purses his lips together nervously. 

Frea quickly looks away, something uncomfortable unfurling in her gut the more she looks at him. Lauretta jogs back, and other servants give her and Esme their dishes. Frea doesn’t miss how the older woman’s eyes flick to and from her and Aidan— almost like she knows something Frea doesn’t. She can feel herself growing restless, those wave emotions hitting her again like a hammer to the chest. 

She doesn’t want to look at Aidan, and yet, it’s the  _ only _ thing she desires to do. And deep down, she feels herself wishing she could just tell Esme to fuck off every time she so much as looks at Aidan. She doesn’t. She keeps her mouth shut, jaw clenched like she’s about to shatter her teeth to dust the more she grinds them together.

All she feels are so many different emotions vying for control. It’s a storm in her head that frankly pisses her off more than anything else. She ignores the spike of irritation she feels whenever Lauretta praises Aidan’s cooking.

She doesn’t look at Aidan. Frea eats her food in silence.

She doesn’t touch the sweets, either.

* * *

Aidan paces around his room. He runs his hand through his hair, teeth tugging at his cracking lower lip. Master didn’t eat any of the sweets he offered. He had thought he was doing the right thing giving them to her. As nice as it was for Esme to give him something, it just didn’t feel right in indulging any of it until Master had it first. But she didn’t take it.

Was he being presumptuous? Maybe the reason Esme gave it to him was because she knew Master didn’t like them? Fuck. He was  _ absolutely  _ being presumptuous.  _ Stupid. _

But he can’t keep worrying about that. Not when it’s time to go to Master’s room. The rest of the day passed without incident and he should use the fact that she didn’t actually punish him to his advantage. He should go. He should continue to be good. So he exits his room.

It doesn’t take long for him to overthink about his recent blunder. It was supposed to be a simple dinner and now he can’t stop the scene of Master being angry at him because of the sweets over and over again. At times the memory of finding father on the floor with a bloody nose would surface and he would swallow hard, willing his eyes to remain dry and his mind focused.

Every continuous mistake he makes where he doesn’t get punished feels like a failure to father. Like he did something wrong to a client and now _ father _ is one being punished for it— taking the pain that otherwise should belong to Aidan.

He flinches like he’s just been slapped across the cheek. His fingers fidget and he realizes he doesn’t have his ribbon. Almost forlornly, he looks behind himself, even though he’s not in the hall that leads to his room. He’s already in the main foyer. 

The room is dark, the lights off, and everything silent. It continues to astound how quiet a house with so many servants and guards can be this quiet once the moon has risen in the sky. Not at all like the brothel, where there’s always someone fucking a man somewhere. Soon, his fingers pick at the skin surrounding his nails as he gradually becomes more restless and foolishly continues to ruminate on things he shouldn’t. Why does he continue to think of father? Why is he nervous? Shouldn’t he know that Asnainians are a benevolent sort? Why does it feel like he’s going around in circles?

“Psst.”

He instinctively hunches his shoulders from the noise, though he quickly realizes it’s Nathaniel. Master’s brother is above the stairs, leaning over the bannister, and he beckons Aidan to come forward.

“Hey. Come on over here.” He whispers.

Aidan frowns, glancing towards Master’s bedroom door. Nathaniel quickly catches onto his hesitance. 

“Relax. There’s still plenty of time until the sun rises.” At Aidan’s lack of any sort of response he huffs lightly, “Would you rather just, I don’t know, sit around and wait for my sister to wake up or would you rather actually do something?”

But kneeling there to be ready for her  _ is  _ doing something. 

And yet, he finds himself going up the stairs towards Nathaniel anyway. A realization then befalls him, one that reminds him that he’s never actually gone upstairs before. It always seemed so forbidden, and he’s never had a reason to be up here before. But he continues onwards, perhaps spurred on by the knowledge that he allowed to because of Nathaniel’s consent.

It doesn’t quite stop him from feeling guilt fester inside of him and weigh down on his shoulders. Master is— she’s  _ asleep.  _ Probably. That’s what Nathaniel more or less said. Aidan will still get to her while she’s still slumbering, of that he is certain. It won’t hurt to entertain her brother’s request for a short while. Maybe that’s why he goes into Nathaniel’s room with such fervour— because he doesn’t want to risk disappointing anyone else.

When he  _ does  _ enter the room, he briefly wonders if Master’s brother brought him to clean it. It’s, to put it bluntly, a bit of a mess. His fingers twitch at the desire to just start picking up the haphazardly thrown brushes, the canvas that lie strewn across the floor, and the clothes that lay unfolded. But Nathaniel gives him no such orders and walks in the middle in the room, and Aidan follows.

He glances side to side, eying some of the cavases that do have images painted on them. He sees one that is an intricate and precise design as it shows the scene of a house in a flower garden. Many of them are paintings of birds and other animals, with one being Diana running in the field. They’re so  _ realistic.  _ Aidan thinks if he were to touch it, he could feel Diana’s sleek fur.

Looking around again, he realizes there’s… a strange organization to everything in the room. Nothing’s actually in the way of anything, and from the center spot of the room that Nathaniel sits at, he sees that the brushes and paints aren’t actually just carelessly thrown to the side, they seem to actually be placed with a purpose— perhaps with convenience in mind in relation to where Nathaniel sits.

Aidan feels his curiosity and bewilderment grow when he settles next to Master’s brother.

“I read in a book that the best way to learn how to draw is to watch and then imitate. So watch me. Then you’re gonna do what I do, yeah? We’ll start with pencil, and work up to painting.”

Aidan nods slowly, genuinely confused at the actual point of all this, but he supposes Nathaniel  _ did _ say something about teaching him to draw.

Nathaniel’s pencil touches the canvas, and suddenly, Aidan feels like they’re not even in the same room anymore. Nathaniel squints and hunches his back as he brings his face closer to the canvas. There’s just such…  _ focus  _ and determination in the way Master’s brother stares as he delves deep into his sketching. The pencil swirls with every flick of his wrist, satisfying streaks of graphite adorn the paper, his brown hair always needing to be flung back when it interferes with his art. Aidan watches and watches and watches, seeing how Nathaniel’s fingers soon become smeared with lead, and clothes covered in eraser shreds.

They sit like that for a while.

Long enough that Aidan becomes concerned over the length of his stay here— his mind always going back to Master. Admittedly, he briefly considers the idea of just… walking out, as Nathaniel seems so engrossed with his drawing that it doesn’t seem like he’d even notice Aidan leaving. But he resists the urge, again thinking of not wanting to risk making someone disappointed or mad.

So he continues watching Nathaniel draw feathers, a beak, an eye, and a head where the feathers make it look almost triangular. He makes part of the face black, and the end result being a bird that would look so lifelike if it were coloured in. Nathaniel appraises his work for several seconds, and when he glances towards Aidan there’s a flicker of surprise on his face. Almost like he forgot that there was someone else in the room.

“This is a cardinal.” He says after an awkward moment of silence. Then he almost sheepishly gives the pencil to Aidan, “Do what I did.”

Aidan reaches for the pencil, though in doing so his fingers just barely touch Nathaniel’s hand. With a sudden jerk, Nathaniel violently brings his arm back, almost hitting Aidan in the process. Something strangled hisses out of his throat— a gasp. Then, Master’s brother just stares at him.

But it doesn’t feel like he’s looking at Aidan, more like he’s looking through him. Mind scrambling to make sense of what just occurred, Aidan traces a circle on his chest to sign  _ <Sorry.> _ but he’s unsure if Nathaniel understands his meaning. The man’s eyes almost look glazed over after a moment, lips quivering but otherwise still as a statue.

Aidan keeps signing  _ <Sorry,> _ unsure of what to do. Shit. Should he… Should he grovel? Leave? Surely Master will be made of aware of this wrongdoing—

“Ah.” His voice is a small squeak, and he blinks in quick succession, like he’s trying to refocus a blurry image. He clears his throat, then begins rubbing his knuckles though it’s quicker and more jittery than when he last did the action, “...Anyway. You can just do what I did.”

Aidan’s brows pinch together for a moment. He looks down on the pencil in his hands, then glances back upwards.

Nathaniel doesn’t make another comment. He just points at the canvas with his chin and looks at him expectantly. 

...Alright. Maybe he should just forget what just happened.

With his nerves still a bit jumbled, Aidan begins to draw a bird. Or attempts to. He tries to remember some of the fancier moves Nathaniel did with lacklustre results, and while Master’s brother made it look so  _ easy  _ and effortless, Aidan begins to feel something else bubble inside of him with every shaky line he draws. 

Embarrassment. 

The bird he draws is hideous.

It’s such a far cry from Nathaniel’s work that he briefly wonders if the man brought him here for the express purpose of making fun of him. To point at his drawing with a sneer and to tell him it’s fucking awful. 

Except that doesn’t happen. Nathaniel peers at his finished work, and makes a small noise that Aidan is unsure of how to interpret. 

“Looks like it gained some weight,” he says, “Very round. Nice.”

He doesn’t mean to, he  _ really  _ doesn’t mean to, but Aidan drops his hand on his lap and lets out a frustrated  _ huff.  _ It’s such a shocking display of rudeness that his mind stutters for a mind as he realizes what he just did. He thinks about Dark Hair— or Master— looming over him, poised to strike, strong and unforgiving. Someone should hold him by the throat and clench it tight. That’ll set him right. How could he have let himself fall so far? Where did he go wrong?

He should have never come here.

Tersely, he glances over to Nathaniel, who looks at him with a cocked head.

“I read in a book that nature dislikes equality.”

At that, Aidan finds himself with furrowed brows.

“One always has more, the other less. Always different. Always interesting. Never a dull moment.” He looks down at the drawing and appraises it for several seconds. “It’d be awfully boring if all drawings looked the same. It’s not bad for a first try.”

Aidan’s jaw becomes slack, at a complete loss of words as he just stares owlishly at him. 

_ Asnainians,  _ he thinks,  _ Very lenient.  _

But that doesn’t make sense. It never did from the start and yet it’s a fact he has to continually remind himself of it. It’s something he should be intimately used to their antics and absurdities, but they consistently find new methods to astound him. For Nathaniel to just sit here and… and… and  _ reassure  _ him? To  _ not  _ give him the scathing remarks he deserves? To not punish him for touching his hand?

He thinks, maybe, that he might actually resent these people a little bit. His chest aches, not unlike when he was Esme earlier. He can’t pinpoint the emotion. He doesn’t understand it.

Then— he thinks a preposterous thought. Something so stark that it makes him jolt in wakefulness, like he’s just been drenched in ice cold water. He freezes, and his world shatters.

_ Master’s brothers don’t know I’m a slave. _

Everything stops, and Aidan becomes rooted so severely by a thought that posits an infeasibility. That can’t be possible, and yet, it makes everything make sense. Maybe—Maybe everyone in this house doesn’t know what he is. Master is… keeping it a secret? Surely Esme must know, so she’s still a perplexity but one he… likes. Master’s brothers on the other hand, they’re strange. 

But it makes sense. Why else would Saskia teach him how to write? Why else would Marcus gleefully show him pictures? Why else would Nathaniel draw with him? And for Aidan to consider this, to not  _ correct  _ it... so selfish.  _ So  _ selfish. Such a bad slave. This is a new level of insanity.

Aidan does not correct Nathaniel.

When Nathaniel told him to teach him to sign, or that he’ll teach him to draw— those were not commands. He just— He just wants to… What was it the men in the brothel said?  _ ‘Hang out.’  _

Nathaniel  _ invited  _ him to his room, because he thought they were  _ equals. _

He curls a hand over his wrist where he feels his pulse pound ferociously. Nathaniel taps the page with the pencil.

“Here, I’ll show you how to shade.”

Aidan thinks he might be beginning to smile out of pure delirium, but it’s something he quickly hides. He shouldn’t let such a delight become overgrown. There must be a reason Master is keeping his true status a secret so he should keep it that way.

He thinks about what he felt a mere day ago.

_...And… it might not be so bad to be in the company of another man he understands every once and a while. _

Yes. He’s going to exploit Nathaniel’s ignorance. And everyone else.

Maybe he  _ should  _ try sleeping on the bed next time.

He’s going to see what it feels like to be human. The anticipation and growing excitement— he desperately tries to keep himself in check.

He follows Nathaniel’s movements and begins to shade. In turn, he teaches some sign language.

He teaches him how to say  _ <Hello, my name is Nathaniel.> _

* * *

Frea can’t sleep. 

Mainly because she just doesn’t want to. She even managed to get on her chair, now sitting in front of her desk. Her eyelids feel heavy but through sheer force of will she keeps them open. Her eyes are accustomed to the darkness, and she flicks her gaze to the camera and photos. 

She has half a mind to just stick them in a drawer so she doesn’t have to keep looking at them.

But she thinks that she may, in fact, be asleep.

Because the reflection in her tabletop mirror smirks at her.

“What are you doing here?” She sneers, “You don’t belong here. You should go back into that void. The pitch darkness of your pitiful mind— like a black scorch mark on a map. Oil that poisons everything around it. That suits you, doesn’t it?”

Frea doesn’t respond. She  _ can’t.  _ She stays there, silent and still as her reflection rattles on.

“Who is Frea?” She asks herself, and while still smiling she brings her hand to her face, directly over her birthmarks. Her thin fingers move in a claw like motion over her skin, gasping the skin and—

Just pulls it off. The blood seeps down her chin as she peels off one of her birthmarks, the flesh clinging onto skin until it breaks off. There are specks of white to reveal bone, and the other Frea doesn’t so much as react to her own defleshing. 

“A hideous, repulsive woman. If only you weren’t born with these. How different do you think your life may have been?” Her voice is casual, with a hint of curiosity despite her beginning to rip off her second birthmark.

Frea flinches without meaning to, not realizing her hands are curling into fists.

Acadia is perfect. They say she creates each human. But then they say that sometimes she makes mistakes on her canvas. Does that mean she’s not perfect? How can she not be? She doesn’t understand why Acadia made her like this.

“You’re weak. Mother always has to fix your mistakes.” The words are suddenly scathing. “It’s your fault the Winthropes will disappear. It’s  _ your  _ mistake. It’s  _ your  _ weakness. It’s just like with the van Belisles and the Redferns.”

A heavy inhalation of breath through her nose that extends her lungs to its full capacity before she gradually exhales.

The Valentines were not the only ruling family in Lullin. 

The van Belisles and the Redferns… They along with the Valentines were the ones that oversaw everything happening in Lullin. Mother would constantly have meetings with their Matriarchs to discuss a great many things, meetings Frea was never allowed to attend.

Mother always thought of them as nuisances.

Frea… remembers a time of the van Belisles’ daughter, Charlotte, teasing her because of her birthmarks. She called her diseased. Then she made a comment about Nathaniel.

_ “My mother says he’s touched in the head! Are you touched as well? You must be, you looked like your face got burned! Haha!” _

Ah, one of the many moments Frea came home crying, and mother had to constantly remind her to be a strong hound. Find their weaknesses. Become a strong Matriarch. Hide your feelings.

She never succeeded in that, obviously. Mother’s hums of disappointment echo in her mind but it’s garbled. Like a small wave of undulation, like a rippling of water. 

Charlotte died in a riding accident. The van Belisles never recovered from their heir’s sudden death. They disappeared into obscurity. And the Redferns… Frea admittedly doesn’t remember them much. They were indistinct, in a way. Not very memorable. Though their children did jeer at her, too. She thinks they ran into monetary trouble and they, too, disappeared.

And now the same is happening with the Winthropes. Mother is extending her territory, it would seem.

Frea purses her lips in a thin line. 

_ “—like a black scorch mark on a map. Oil that poisons everything around it. That suits you, doesn’t it?” _

Were those… really her fault…?

“You’re so weak that mother had to show everyone who’s the boss around here. If she didn’t, don’t you think those families would have tried to destroy the Valentines? Don’t you?” The voice is deadpan, as if it’s stating a mere well-known fact. “To think you’re here now because you thought of yourself as a photographer. Another mistake among many.”

She could laugh, really. Mother talks of the importance of the nobility, of the order, of this gap between the classes— and yet here she is, the one that is destroying noble houses one by one. She doesn’t understand her own mother. If everyone is her enemy, then how are nobles supposed to keep order?

But she supposes she doesn’t understand a lot of things.

Frea doesn’t understand her own emotions either. Her teeth grind in frustration. Her growing vexation is accentuated with the quickening of her breathing. This is ridiculous. This is  _ infuriating. _

“There’s a way to absolve you of your mistakes.” The other Frea says, her face now an ugly, gory mess, “Give mother an heir.” Even with the skin falling off, she can still see a grotesque smile forming from beneath the weeping flesh. “Or you could die. Death can sometimes be the ultimate redemption, don’t you think?”

Frea holds her head in her hands, willing the specter to just  _ leave.  _ But while she may not see the horrid expression anymore, her voice continues to invade her mind, crawling through her ears like a wily centipede.

“If only you were stronger like mother. Don’t you think you could have been something  _ great?” _

The voice is sour now. It even cracks mid-sentence, laden with grief.

“Oil that poisons everything around it,” it repeats, “You ruined Marcus’ chance of getting married. You don’t  _ really  _ think he wants to be around you, do you? And what about Lauretta? Do you think she laughs and gossips about you when she leaves? Maybe even laugh with Marcus? They must be like the girls you grew up with. Why wouldn’t they be? You’re just so fucking repulsive.”

Frea’s breath hitches, and the pain in her legs becomes sharper. It’s a pain that’s never left since she stepped on the bomb, and now she’s beginning to forget how  _ not  _ feeling it is like. The dull ache has never left her, not once.

“You do, don’t you? Dr. Kippe knows of your weaknesses. Lauretta must know, too.”

She’s clawing at her hair now, her fists so tightly gripping her curls she thinks she might just rip her scalp off. In a desperate effort to not let out any whimpers, she bites her lower lip hard enough she begins to taste copper.

“Everyone is your enemy, just like mother said they were.”

Her body jerks with a gasp, lifting up her head so violently that she feels dizzy. Her fists are raised above her head, her muscles taut as she feels nothing but the intense, overwhelming desire to break this fucking mirror—

The desire is extinguished the moment she sees her reflection has turned back to normal.

She swallows, and blinks, then she blinks again, and again more rapidly, and begins to lose focus as her eyes swell up with tears. She brings her arms down, and covers her mouth with one of her hands. She’s quivering like a leaf, and she feels like she’s about to be crushed like one.

And she doesn’t hear her door creak open.

Frea is too preoccupied with trying to stop herself from hyperventilating to notice the steps that approach her. It is only when a hand touches her shoulder does she let out a shrill squawk and almost fall out of her chair. She doesn’t, however, because the same hand on her shoulder grabs a hold of her chair’s armrests to prevent that from happening.

Blinking furiously, everything comes back into focus. Aidan’s concerned eyes stare a hole straight through her, and she sees nothing but pure mortification flicker on his expression before he kneels directly beside her.

_ <Sorry.> _ He signs and she finds she’s far too tired to try to understand why he’s apologizing. Her whole body throbs, and with a shaky and long exhale she begins rubbing her forehead. She closes her eyes for several seconds, controlling her breathing.

When she opens her eyes she sees Aidan is still signing more apologies.

“Aidan.” She says, causing him to immediately freeze and  _ ah.  _ There’s a small flicker of warmth that alights inside of her. She was going to say something else, but now she finds she can’t remember what it was supposed to be in the slightest. All she can do is just watch him, this man who’s currently on his knees and hunching his shoulders in an attempt to look smaller.

A voice rings in her head.

_ Maybe you  _ can  _ have some of the strength mother has. Maybe you  _ can  _ have a semblance of the control she has. _

Images of her belting come back to her unprompted, his nude, vulnerable body.  _ Beautiful,  _ she thinks, followed by  _ mine. _

Her throat quickly becomes dry. Her hands still shaking, she cups Aidan’s cheeks. He’s got a firm jawline that feels strong under her palm. She watches his throat bob when he swallows.

_ You don’t want anyone taking him away. You want to control him. _

That much she’s already aware of. A fruitless attempt to escape from reality, but the voice continues speaking.

_ What do women do when they want to claim dominion over a man? To show everyone that she controls him? _

She already knows the answer. Unconsciously she presses her thighs together as her own voice speaks to her, and it feels like she’s a nail that’s about to be struck by a hammer.

  
_ She fucks him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. I think someone might be reaching her limit. I wonder what's gonna happen? 🤔🤔🤔
> 
> And yes, hair wreaths are a real thing. Pretty funky. And Marcus dismissing blacksmithing while being a carpenter (but being lowkey ashamed of it) and making hair wreaths (which requires a helluva lot of dexterity) is intentional. Internalized misandry is fun to write. :^)


	13. Interlude: An Old Woman's Ruminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frea and Aidan are not the only ones experiencing a tragedy. Takes place during chapter 12.

Esme isn’t surprised. This is a fact she’s reluctantly and bitterly accepted. Frea despises her and she finds herself feeling a sharp punch of something dismal. She fucking checked the perimeter of that damn manor, on three seperate occassions. And someone she was responsible for still got hurt. She’s been slipping ever since she started drinking.

For once, Esme finds herself wishing she could be back home with her mountain of paperwork. What’d she give to go to her past life and being hunched over her desk, checking reports about crime, of imports and exports, of finances, of taxes and tariffs, of updates about the latest silk production, of noble families constantly shit-talking one another, of Utreau sending Asnain countless threats. When was the last time she’s been in Boroughton? It feels like a goddamn lifetime ago.

She had really taken the safety of her office for granted. She never once thought she’d miss the hand and wrist cramps that come from writing for hours on end.

It doesn’t help that those thoughts are often accompanied by memories of Percy—

_“Being holed up here all day is bad for your health, you know.”_ Her husband would often say when he peeked his head through the door. _“I finally managed to get Angelea to bed. Now I’ve got to get you to bed, hehe.”_

_“The paperwork isn’t going to finish itself.”_ She replied curtly, not that it ever stopped Percy. He stood next to her, hand on one of her shoulders as he looked down on the mountain of reports.

_“And what are you looking at this time?”_ She didn’t need to see him to know there was a frown forming on his lips. _“...Is it about Utreau?”_

_“Most of it, yeah.”_ Primarily reports of growing tensions around the border. She leaned back on her chair, rubbing her haggard eyes. _“Experts say we’ll probably be going to war in a few years time if this keeps up.”_

He huffed, and she glanced at his face. His tousled dark brown hair was thick and lustrous, something he took great pride in. His blue eyes were soft, and his lips twitched upwards to give her a tiny smile. _“Experts, huh? And who are they?”_

Esme shrugged. _“Fuck if I know. That’s just what the newspapers and radios say.”_

Percy chuckled under his breath. His hand cupped her cheek when he rounded her seat and promptly sat on her lap, effectively obstructing her from doing any work.

_“I think you need a break.”_

_“Utreau will not take any breaks,”_ she deadpanned.

He quirked a disapproving brow. _“I wasn’t aware that my wife’s correspondence to reports is the one thing that’s keeping war from breaking out.”_

_“Yeah, I hope the Empress will give me a medal for my distinguished service.”_ She allowed herself a small grin at that, even if it lasted for only a second before her expression hardened. _“Angelea is fifteen. What if war does break out in a few years, and she’s old enough to be a soldier? And I go too?”_

Her husband furrowed her brows, and Esme placed her hands on his thighs. It was a small attempt at intimacy, at a small sense of comfort when they spoke of a topic they both wanted to avoid discussing at length.

Percy sighed.

_“Then you two become valiant soldiers.”_ His face was sombre, but he tried to keep his smile intact. _“I’m sure Utreau won’t know what hit them.”_ He nuzzled her neck then, _“But valiant soldiers need rest. It wouldn’t do you any good to pass out from exhaustion because you were too busy reading dusty paperwork.”_

She tapped his thigh. _“Rest is counterproductive.”_

_“Acadia, Esme. It’s a small wonder that Angelea calls her own mother emotionally constipated.”_ He said in a tone he often used with their daughter when he caught her trying to steal snacks in the kitchen after bedtime.

He leaned back, no longer smiling, expression being something that could be described as a pout despite Percy being a man nearing his mid thirties.

_“I’m going to make sure you take tomorrow off even if it kills me.”_

Esme snorted. _“Oh, is that a threat?”_

His grin returned, but it was even smaller. Melancholic. 

_“I act as your doting husband.”_

Well, how’s a woman meant to retaliate to that? She lifted her arms in mock defeat. _“Alright. You beat me. I’ll come to bed.”_

Percy leaned down, his breath intermingling with hers when their lips met each other. It’s a short, but passionate, kiss. One of hidden desires.

They vacated Esme’s seat and went to their room with no more spoken words—

Esme sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time. If rest was counterproductive, then what is dredging up old memories? And yet, she can’t help but continue reminiscing about the scenes that surface in her mind.

They did indeed go to war in a few years. Both she and Angelea were posted at seperate stations. Percy’s howlsof anguish are forever etched into her memory. And then Esme fought. She fought for _fucking_ years.

She traces the scar that covers a good half of her face.

She thinks that her husband forgot how to smile during those years. She had been carted off to the hospital after suffering that injury and he traveled half the country to meet with her. She doesn’t even know how he heard of her being here.

Barely any of his words were comprehensible due to his violent crying. For some reason, he constantly blamed himself for her getting hurt by shrapnel.

There was a moment of reprieve, however, when the war _ended_ while she was recovering.

But she still had to go back to Utreau.

_“D-Don’t go. Please.”_ He wailed, _“The fighting’s over! I-I don’t understand why you have to go back!”_

_“There’s still work to be done,”_ she said flatly. _“No time to rest.”_

A bump in the rode makes her carriage jump, promptly distracting her from her current rumination. At this point, she's become quite well acquainted with that one bump. She knows she’s gradually edging closer to the Valentine estate.

Fuck, does she wish she could just go back in time. She misses everything from her home. And now every night she sleeps in a jail cell with half the Imperial Inquisition breathing down her neck.

She grits her teeth.

_That’s not the point,_ she thinks bitterly, _Frea and Aidan are the prerogative. Who gives a shit if your feelings are hurt?_

Esme exhales heavily through her nose. It’s another day. Another chance at fixing this shithole.

* * *

Esme very quickly decides Aidan deserves the fucking world.

He deserves a kind hand, not one that leaves scars. She watches him play with the chessboard with such focus and excitement that she feels just a little bit less haggard. It’s a hell of a lot of progress since she first met the kid, so at the very least she can take solace she’s doing _something_ right.

She thinks about him in that closet, clutching those Utritian documents. Like a forgotten ghost. How he hunched his body in a desperate attempt to seem invisible. Something small. Something insignificant. Something easy to miss.

Something that won’t be a target.

When she thinks about what he could possibly have gone through before she found him, thoughts and images of brutal torture twists its way into her head and she’s overwhelmed with the desire to break someone’s skull. 

She knows she’s got a scary face now. She knows she can intimidate people, hell, she intimidated Frea when she met her without meaning to. She tries to school her expression as Aidan looks at the chessboard, not wanting to unintentionally frighten him and make him think she’s scowling at him.

In the end, she doesn’t need to try especially hard to keep her face in check. Aidan’s quick movements with the rooks and obvious growing interest makes her muscles slacken. The way his lips curl upwards— even if it’s just a little bit— is something precious, she thinks idly. He should smile often. It’s a good look.

His smiles are delicate like him.

Something to be protected.

Something to be nurtured. Something to be praised. Something _significant._

The last time she had felt this strongly about something was when she first cradled Angelea in her arms.

Aidan captures her last rook, the chessboard now empty save for his final piece. She shoots him a lopsided smirk while signing _ <You beat me,> _ and then calls him smart because that’s _exactly_ what he is. He needs someone kind, because Acadia knows his life must have been rife with nothing but endless hurt. She intends to alleviate that however she can.

Esme is fond of the kid. Almost impossibly so.

And she thinks Percy would have been fond of him, too.

* * *

Esme wasn’t even meant to marry Percy. She was meant to marry his brother.

Their families had a good relationship, and her future husband was already chosen for her. Once she had come of age, they would be wed. Back when she was growing up— _‘a century ago,’_ Angelea would say, something that still makes Esme scoff— noblemen were seldom ever seen. It was looked down upon for them just to be out and about. She distinctly remembers an Arch Priestess’ words regarding the matter.

_“The greatest achievement a man can accomplish is to have his wife speak fondly of him.”_

Men stayed home. They _really_ stayed home, to the point that back in her day men didn't even attend church sermons. If his wife spoke of him to her colleagues and friends, then was all that mattered.

But such strict rules meant she met Percy, because he literally didn’t have anywhere else to go. So he became a bit of a constant in her life because she visited his family often to learn about their alliance with the Winthropes, and just in general be taught how to be a Matriarch.

She chalked up him constantly staring at her was because of him being about five years younger than her. And because she was probably the only young woman he saw that wasn’t related to him or a guard. Yeah, it was probably mostly that. He was especially sheltered, even as a man, because he had a heart that was weaker than the average person. Jogging up the stairs was enough to almost make him pass out.

And Esme, being in her rebellious teenager phase, sought him out. Admittedly, he didn’t make the best first impression.

_“Esme? But that’s an old lady’s name!”_

But she couldn’t stop meeting with him. They became friends. They became more than that. Her mother was against it at first due to his delicate health, calling it a mere crush she’d grow out of. 

_‘Crush’_ was such an infantile word. Esme hated it. She didn't have a crush on Percy, she loved him with the passion hotter than a thousand suns. He was the _one._ He was all that was in her mind during those short years she held back from telling him how she felt.

But she did tell him. She confessed one rainy day.

And the rest was, well, history.

* * *

If spending time with Aidan is a small slice of paradise, then being in Damaris’ office is akin to being flayed alive.

The woman is awfully fond of twirling her cane around. Esme isn’t an _idiot._ She knows the cane isn’t one at all— it’s a hidden blade that can be unsheathed. Her making a show of the damn thing is an unsaid threat.

The Valentine Matriarch slides a document across her desk. “Sign it.”

Esme looks down, and then tries not to cringe at the amount she’s outright demanding of her. It borders on fucking _stupid_ and she glares at Damaris.

“You claim this is for Frea’s recovery. Healthcare for nobles is free. So what the fuck are you actually using this for? You might as well be demanding that I give you my entire silk business.”

“How presumptuous of you.” She replies flatly. Her hand goes to her shoulder and it takes all of Esme’s willpower not to become violent then and there. “Your daughter is at the Southern Isles, on the island of Triun’fante specifically, isn’t she? In the village of Helada. I believe the Cult of Acadia has members posted there.”

Her voice holds no emotion, but it’s impossibly heavy with the implication of something horribly unpleasant.

Esme bares her teeth in a growl. “What the fuck are you getting at?”

“Merely attempting to make idle small talk. No need to get belligerent.” Damaris says, eyes narrowing. Her hand tightens around her shoulder for only a fraction, but severe enough to make Esme’s words die in her throat. She can only think about how thankful she is that she’s never had a son, as the thought of _any_ child of hers marrying into this family makes her want to vomit. It’s a miracle that that Marcus boy is actually fucking normal.

Damaris effortlessly twirls her cane.

“Sign it.”

And Esme does.

* * *

Technically, Esme was doing something illegal when she experienced her first kiss.

Because she… well, she _technically_ broke into Percy’s estate. It was the dead of night, and she snuck through the back gates and hid in barrels to avoid the patrolling guards. She skulked around the mansion walls before finding what she sought after— vines that slithered up the wall. They were powerful enough to support her body as she climbed up, and she unceremoniously fell through a window.

She wasn’t very elegant in her entrance, but it didn’t stop Percy from basically swooning at the sight of her.

_“My knight in shining armour has come to rescue me from my tower!”_ He whispered excitedly, all dressed up for their midnight excursion. He’s always been fond of the colour blue and he wears his silken coat beautifully— a gift courtesy of her mother’s growing business. 

Esme gave him a mock salute with a cocky grin. _“I’m afraid they’ve broken down the castle walls, my Prince. We must make haste and escape this place.”_

He giggled like a schoolboy, and since she was currently the sappiest person on Acadia’s green earth right now she called it the most precious sound to ever grace her ears, which promptly made him giggle more, though he had become far more bashful as he fluttered his eyelashes.

They didn’t waste further time and climbed down the vines, and Esme caught Percy from the ground when he let go midway through. 

And then they ran, and ran, and ran. Percy’s estate stood on a hill— though what noble house _isn’t_ on a hill, anyway?— and they climbed further above it to oversee the city. 

Well, they had to wait for Percy to catch his breath first. He gulped for air, having needed to take several rests for their little sprint. With every movement there was a wheeze from him like air escaping from a deflating balloon, and Esme offered her shoulder so he could lean on her, but he refused, saying he could do it himself. By the time they reached their destination he was dizzy, and slumped his body against a tree.

_“Haah… haah…”_ He panted, then gulped. _“M-My… haah, my mother… haah… w-would have your head if she knew…”_ He said, lips quirking in a smirk as he broke off into a breathless chuckle.

Esme wrinkled her nose, hovering over him with a worried gaze. _“I’m supposed to be your knight, remember? The least you could do is let me carry you or something. I don’t want you overworking yourself and, you know, just dying.”_

It takes him a moment to catch up with his breathing.

_“Haah… Have a little faith! How will my heart grow stronger if I don’t get some exercise, huh?”_

_“I don’t think it’s lack of exercise that’s making you so winded.”_

He huffed. _“Would you rather I stay hobbled in my room like my parents want? I stay in the home more than most men! It gets dreadfully boring, you know.”_ He looked at the cityscape, and Esme followed his gaze.

Lights glittered everywhere just liked stars dropping to the earth, huge and small buildings collided in a mixture of shadow and geometry, the occasional carriage rushed along tangled lines of streets creating twisting threads of light— they all intertwined together in a magnificent mess that made everything feel homely. It’s a sight Esme had seen countless times before, and when she saw Percy’s expression— one of pure wonderment— she was reminded of the fact this is the first time he’s seeing this.

It… felt intimate, sharing this moment with him. Precious and delicate.

_“I suppose I can see why women don’t want us going anywhere.”_ He said, voice full of mirth as he kept his eyes on the city below him. _“Once men get a taste of something like this, we just wouldn’t want to go back home, hehe. There’d be no one left to marry.”_

_“Well I’ll have to drag you back home before the night ends,”_ She shrugged, _“But I guess that just means I’ll have to take you out every night, huh?”_

He looked at her then. He was still breathing slightly heavier than normal, but his eyes… held something else. Narrowed and almost glazed, and a redness dotted his cheeks.

_“There’s something else I want to get a taste of, you know.”_

Percy was surprisingly frank for a man. He came forward, pressing his body onto hers, and she put her hands on his hips and kept them there. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

_“You almost keeled over from a sprint up the hill. I know how excited men get when it comes to kissing. And especially their first kiss.”_

He snorted ungracefully.

_“I’m not going to die just because I kissed you.”_ He leaned in, and Esme couldn’t tear her eyes away from his soft, plump lips. Fuck, they looked _delicious. “People always tell me what I can’t have. That just makes me want it more.”_

Esme steeled herself, fingers twitching on his hips which made him squirm. Her focus was scattered, so filled with nervous anticipation was she, so excited, even giddy. She didn’t need to say anything, her growing smile and her leaning in was enough to tell Percy what was going to happen.

At first, it was just their lips brushing together. She didn’t want to go in too deep and get ahead of herself. She was a noble and nobles took it _slow._ The entirety of their relationship was one social etiquette rule broken after another, but when it came to kissing, she agreed with the expectation that it should be taken slowly. It was something to be coveted.

She pressed her tongue to the seam of Percy’s lips and, at his grant of access, delved inside his mouth. But only for a moment, as she soon parted from him. He looked dizzy again, and he inhaled deeply as his voice wavered.

_“Sweep me off my feet, why don’t you?”_

And that’s exactly what she did.

* * *

Esme gasps sharply, her hand tightly grasping at her chest as she tries to stop herself from outright hyperventilating. Every memory of Percy’s small smiles and bright eyes plays like a song in her head, repeating itself for what seems like forever. She can’t get that part back and she wants it _so_ badly as if her life depended on it but it was all gone, vanished in thin air.

Her knees buckle, and her back slides down the wall as she cradles her head in her hands.

_Percy… Percy… Percy…!!_

She could write a million letters, each one the same as the last in sentiment and cadence. They would stay the same, only the word arrangement changes. It boils down to one thing, she misses him. He should be here.

She should have stayed.

She’s a fucking noble. She didn’t _have_ to go to war. The conscription didn’t apply to her, but she went anyway because she felt that she had an obligation. She went fucking _twice._ When she returned to that hellscape they called a country she soon received a letter saying Percy died of a heart attack. His fragility finally caught up with him. The stress she had put on him must have been unimaginable, and it’s a fact that eats at her with every passing day.

Why did she go back? All she has to show for her military service is a dead husband and a daughter that resents her because she watched her pitiful mother shamefully drown herself in alcohol following his death.

_“Why did you go? He wanted you to stay more than anything. How could you?”_ Were the last bitter words Angelea spoke to her before she departed to the Southern Isles. Even her curt letters hold nothing but blatant antagonism.

Now— she’s on the cusp of bawling her eyes out in the middle of the fucking Valentine residence with two guards that just stare at her like they’re marionettes. She pinches the bridge of her nose, her eyes tightly shut. Oh, how far she had fallen.

She stays there, breathing heavily. Esme stays there for a moment, a moment she considers too long.

_There is no time to rest._

She doesn’t _deserve_ rest. She has to get over herself. She has to go to the garden where Frea is. She has to make things _right._ And she wants, more than anything, to make things right with Angelea— but she has to focus on the _now._

Esme stands, her legs shaking for a moment. The inside of her throat feels unbearably itchy. With a heavy inhale, she begins walking, though her mind is nothing but a storm.

Aidan, thank Acadia, seems to be getting better. Swimmingly, really. Frea, however? She’s beginning to unnerve Esme a great deal, and the thought makes her steps falter. The young woman’s glare could curdle milk, and she thinks Frea might actually be unaware of the enmity that practically emanates from her very being. She needs to find a way to reach her. But how? How can she possibly do that?

The grief of everything comes back, and it surges with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by her long intakes of the cold air.

Every time she leaves this fucking house to go back to the jailhouse Esme is wrought with a feeling of overwhelming dread. She’s _gone._ She’s not _with_ Aidan or Frea. What if something happens while she’s not there? She failed Percy and Angelea. She can’t fail them any more than she already has, but if something were to happen with her around, what can she even do?

She doesn’t know.

But she knows it has to be something.

So Esme tries to put on a strong face, and she meets Frea in the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, an interlude wasn't something that was in the original draft of this story, but I thought this was just too good to pass up. I think it would be a good way to give some of the supporting cast a chance to shine. I also think I want at least one more with Esme that focuses on her strained relationship with her daughter, but that won't be until a couple of more chapters. She deserves her chance in the spotlight.
> 
> As always, comments are highly appreciated!


	14. Chapter 14

Anticipation trickles down Frea’s spine.

Aidan’s expression speaks of nothing but apprehension. Frea swallows her dissolution, chest heaving. Everything about these quiet, tense seconds is so sinful. So salacious. So _dirty._ She moves her hand against his cheek, feeling his warmth and the desire inside of her begins to ache painfully.

She’s a woman.

Which means she can take whatever she wants.

And she wants _him._ Because he _belongs_ to her and it’s high time she fucking showed everyone that simple fact.

Frea ignores the cackling that seems to echo in the back of her head. It makes her skin feel frigid. She cups his other cheek with her free hand, his eyes widening slightly at the action and she almost chuckles under her breath, though she doesn’t laugh because she becomes a little bit _too_ focused on his lips. That part of his face suddenly takes up all of her concentration.

His lips are a pale pink that reminds her of a rose bud. The top lip is thinner, but not too thin, and it has a natural bow; the bottom one is larger and more plush. Frea stares at them, and not for the first time she’s overtaken with the realization that he’s possibly the most attractive man she’s ever laid her eyes upon. For a brief second, she wonders what his lips would feel against hers— but hers are rough and thin now. _Everything_ about her is just… rough.

That pisses her off.

Her muscles tense, and rationality leaves her. Much like coffee, her bitterness draws her in to take another sip knowing it’ll lead to nothing. She knows these thoughts are _stupid._ She fucking knows that. But the more she looks at him the more irritated she feels.

These clothes, she dressed him in the finest this house has to offer and yet she dresses herself in rags. He’s so clean, so _beautiful_ and all she has are birthmarks and bandaged stumps that she wishes she could rip off. Why should she be like _this_ and he can be like _that?_ It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t—

_You should slap him._

_You should remind him where he belongs. Remind everyone._

Her thumb traces over his bottom lip, and she wonders if Marcus is letting him use any of his lip balm since it’s so smooth and glossy. When she feels a hint of dampness she doesn’t even think about what she does next. Her thumb pushes forward, and it effortlessly delves into his mouth.

Frea’s breath hitches at her thumb simply slipping in like that. When she feels Aidan’s tongue run across her digit a shiver runs through her entire body alongside a strike of heat that crashes into her core. Evidently she’s not the only one just… _doing_ things without much thought, as Aidan eyelashes flutter for a moment as he gently sucks on her. _Sucks._ His mouth! Around her thumb! His wet tongue! _On her thumb!_

Something akin to impish glee hits her when she presses her thighs together, the heat enveloping her body increasing two fold in mere seconds. She could squirm in growing excitement but she continues staring a hole into his face, utterly enamored with how he continues to wet her thumb with his tongue and mouth, taking her deeper and soon reaching the knuckle. The sensation of his saliva bathing her digit makes her almost smile deliriously.

It’s— _intoxicating,_ how he just takes it. He’s done this before, clearly. His eyes are closed and he hallows his cheeks for another suckle with his cheeks ablaze. Just what is going through his pretty little head, she wonders.

She’s still wrought with the desire to slap him. Or to at least do _something._ Something cruel. Something _controlling._ She doesn’t do anything except hiss out a shaky exhale. 

_You— I can do whatever I want with him,_ she reminds herself. Sometimes as a child she would stare outside her bedroom window and pretend the town below were a series of dollhouses when she was bored. She would hover her fingers before her eyes and pretend she could control every person’s move. That’s Aidan now— a doll with no thoughts, no feelings or wishes, each only born to serve _her._

“H-Haah…” She sighs, a distinct feeling of euphoria washing over her and she presses her thumb further to the back of Aidan’s warm throat. His eyes flutter open, looking up at her with eyes that she can only describe as pleading before he closes them again.

Now that just makes her cunt throb.

It must be some primeval instinct taking over her, this desire to dominate every inch of Aidan’s body and mind. She thinks back to when she first met him. He had worn a collar, and now she wants to put one back on him. To show everyone once and for all that he belongs to her. He’s _her_ property. Maybe then everyone would stop trying to take him away from her. Maybe then she’ll stop feeling so irritated. Maybe then she’ll stop feeling so powerless.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, so softly that she doesn’t think Aidan even heard her. “All mine. Why can’t everyone just let me have this one thing…?”

Frea doesn’t miss how bitter her voice becomes.

She takes out her thumb, replacing it with two fingers that move across his tongue. He doesn’t gag, though he does let out a small noise of discomfort. 

“Mmhm.”

She knows it’s nothing more than air passing through his larynx, but she’s overcome with the impossible desire to make him scream. To slap him. To just take him right here—

A loud wailing sound pierces through her eardrums, making her freeze. In an instant, she’s in a void and Aidan isn't in front of her anymore. Instead, in her arms is a fucking _baby._ So tiny, so vulnerable— and bloodied, like a newborn. It sounds like the screeching of an angry cat, only growing harsher and louder and the ringing in Frea’s ears overwhelms every other sound. She’s at a loss of words, staring in abject horror at this specter of a child and suddenly her mind ceases to function.

Her stomach lurches, waves of nausea hitting her like a train. In an instant she begins hyperventilating, the screeching of the red-faced baby growing louder as they thrash in her arms.

In moments the sweat runs off her like condensation off winter glass. What started as a glossy sheen becomes beaded, but not attractively like morning dew, and forms tiny rivers that flow into her clothes.

Frea shuts her eyes, then opens them again.

And just like that, the wailing stops, but remnants of the noise echoes in her rattled mind.

The baby is gone, and her room comes back into view, Aidan still on his knees in front of her. His brows are pinched in a look of worry and confusion, and Frea realizes her fingers are no longer in his mouth. Instead, she’s gripping the handles of her chair hard enough she thinks she might snap it.

She’s breathing heavily, too.

Aidan begins frantically signing something but she doesn’t read it. She feels too discombobulated to form a coherent thought, and whatever she had felt just moments ago seems to disappear like a wisp of smoke. She swallows, the action feels like needles go down her throat.

Her body shakes at the realization— what if Aidan finishes inside of her? 

She can’t just _go_ to town to get an unwanted pregnancy terminated. Mother won’t allow that, surely, even if she could walk. She wants a fucking heir.

The thought makes her feel cold. There is no more warmth that makes her core flutter.

She clears her throat, desperate to keep her mind off of literally everything that’s happening right now.

“I…” Now she wants to slap herself, utterly unaware of what she should say. Not like he’s deserving of an actual explanation. “I’m going to, ah, I’m going to translate some documents… You just… do whatever.”

She’s quickly beginning to feel a migraine form. There’s a slight pain in her stumps as well. Stiffly, she turns her chair to return to facing her desk and stubbornly avoids looking at the mirror. She also avoids glancing at the camera that sits perched at the corner of the table. If she doesn’t keep her eyes on the stupid documents she thinks she might suffocate on nothing.

Ah, she’s irritated with everything again.

She puts on a desk lamp, pencil in hand.

The writing on the paper seems to blend in together and she’s unsure if she can properly read anything, and she feels as though she’s a puppet on its strings just mindlessly translating some random, meaningless phrases. Does anyone even need these things translated anymore?

Her expression twitches. She can feel Aidan’s gaze on her. He hasn’t moved from his spot.

Despite her mind telling her not to, she turns to him anyway. She ignores her desires that are mangled with visions of a crying baby she wants nothing to do with.

Frea narrows her eyes. Aidan’s imploring eyes remind her of a puppy, and he shifts uncomfortably where he kneels, brows slightly creased and face tense.

“...Do your knees hurt?”

He hesitantly nods after a few seconds.

“If you feel the need to kneel here, go ahead and take one of the pillows.”

She has to suppress a wry grin when he scrambles to do just that. He places the pillow on the floor, kneeling on it. Whatever hesitance and confusion that was warring in his head is clearly abated. Hell, he even looks a bit proud of himself with how he straightens his back. Maybe he’s hoping she’ll continue to shove her fingers in his mouth.

She knows she wants to do that again. There’s too many contrasting feelings vying for dominance.

But she can’t continue with this. Not after that brief glimpse into a very real nightmare. Sharp pain lances through her legs and colorful spots flashes in front of her eyes, but miraculously she’s able to keep the pathetic whimper from being let out. She’s _weak,_ but she refuses to fall that far.

_Maybe you can have some of the strength mother has. Maybe you can have a semblance of the control she has._

_What do women do when they want to claim dominion over a man? To show everyone that she controls him?_

Her jaw clenches.

In the end, she’s not strong enough. She was _never_ strong enough. She was a fool to even entertain the thought.

And yet she thinks she can… settle for something else. Something lesser. Just for the morning before everyone else wakes up. She still feels a pull towards Aidan, one she can’t quite shake even with her horrid weaknesses. Her fingers feel restless, and her hand moves forward. This time she doesn’t cup his cheeks, rather she instead cards her fingers through his golden hair. It’s softer than she remembers it. It never ceases to surprise her just how much effort he apparently put in for his appearance.

For a split-second, she ruminates about how she wants to watch him wash his hair, or just… take care of himself in general, for reasons she can’t quite pinpoint.

There’s still the desire to slap him, or to pull his hair alongside doing a great many other things, but for once her mind is blissfully quiet. There are no tumultuous thoughts, and Frea thinks she should take advantage of this moment of reprieve she knows will not last long. The moment others so much as look at Aidan she knows these feelings will bubble inside of her again, and this wretched pattern will begin anew.

She feels… stifled. Overcome with the need to do something. What, she’s not sure, and so she speaks before thinking about it.

“Lay your head on my lap.” She says— no, _commands,_ and she watches a flicker of exhilaration flash in Aidan’s eyes. He nods, once, and places his cheek on her thighs. Her hand is still running through his hair.

“...You may sleep.” She says, softer this time. This is alright for now, this will work for her growing feelings of possessiveness for a long enough while. She doesn’t know when she’ll feel the longing for him to hurt, when images of his belted back will come back to the forefront of her mind. That… frightens her, just a little bit. 

Frea swallows thickly with the ensuing silence when Aidan closes his eyes. He breathes slowly and gently.

Her mind remains quiet.

She doesn’t translate many more documents, instead she spends much of the early hours of the morning simply looking at him. When she looks up, she winces at her own reflection in the mirror. It’s normal. Nothing is different, but she still feels like she’s looking directly into a monster.

* * *

Aidan feels weightless.

He had thought he had done something wrong when Master suddenly pulled her fingers out from his mouth, pulling her arm back like he bit her. For a moment he thought that maybe he did just that, but suddenly he’s got a pillow under his knees and his head on her lap. That alone makes him think that this is all an elaborate dream instead of reality.

No, she won’t actually hurt him. Or fuck him, like he was expecting. He was so ready to do whatever needed to be done but it never happened. The relief is gentle, but his own exhaustion has his head heavy against her legs.

There’s a niggling sensation at the back of his head. It’s not a thought of him failing her, something he would expect, instead it’s… worry. Worry for Master.

He knows she is not alright. It’s a quiet sort of upset in how she… acts around him. It’s not something he’s used to— usually he expects a woman to kick him in the stomach or for him to be threatened with a shard of glass. Master instead looks as though she’s constantly on the precipice of lashing out but she never quite gets there.

It confuses him.

It continues to worry him.

But he thinks that if he continues to be readily available for her, she’ll eventually become okay again. Her fingers going through his hair relaxes any tension he feels, and he thinks this is what floating on a cloud feels like. He’s unsure of how she feels now, but he hopes him laying his head on her lap helps her relax like it helps him. He hopes she will do it again.

As he continues to think about how good he is for her, the soft feeling of the pillow and her legs lull him into precarious laxity, the last thought that escapes him is the fact that this is the happiest he’s felt in a very long time, and he wishes father could have experienced what it was like to belong to a kind Master.

* * *

The day passes by comfortably. The routine is a little different from normal, as Aidan stays in the room with Master. No lessons for today, it would seem. Or at least not now, not when he and Marcus are currently brushing Diana. The dog lies on the ground seemingly oblivious to the dirt that clogs its black fur into some unattractive matts. Instead of sniffing Aidan’s hand she just tilts her head away and closes her eyes in a look of bliss. Well, as blissful as a dog can look, anyway.

He mimics Marcus’ movements with a brush, and the two of them fall into an easy rhythm of grooming Diana who has what Aidan would probably call an absurd amount of fur. 

Intermittently, Master's brother will sign at him, his hands practically shaking in excitement.

_ <Diana.> _He says and points at the dog in question.

Aidan responds with a tilt of the head, but nods regardless to show he understands. At that, Marcus just _beams._ With the wide smile forming on his lips it’s hard not to grin as well. Marcus’ free hand forms into a fist as he pumps it into the air in an act of triumph, even though the man really doesn’t need to sign in the first place. 

Then, in an act that further confirms Aidan’s suspicions of Master’s brothers not knowing of him being a slave— not like he really needed more confirmation anyway— Marcus gives him a small container. He can’t read most of the writing on it, but he knows from experience that it's a type of cream to wash his face with in the morning. It isn’t the first time he’s been given toiletries he’s done nothing to deserve.

When he brings his hand to his lips to sign a quick _ <Thank you,> _Marcus wiggles where he sits. It’s like he has excess energy he wants to let out, not unlike when Diana runs across the foyer when she gets eager to go outside.

As he continues to brush Diana, he thinks about how… different he feels and looks. The last time he looked in the mirror he thought he was looking at a stranger. Before he had met Master, his hair was unkempt, skin sallow, cheeks gaunt and eyes dull. Now, the person who looks back at him… it takes some getting used to. He’s so _clean,_ even though he bathes in cold used water because he’s still a man on top of being a slave.

The feeling of the clothes on his back is still a foreign sensation. He’s put on weight too, but the ‘good’ kind, like the men in the brothel say. His body remains firm.

That’s good. As long as he looks attractive for Master.

In the midst of his thoughts he doesn’t notice Marcus moving to sit next to him. The larger man produces a small comb from his breast pocket, soon brushing Aidan’s hair to the side, which promptly makes him blink owlishly in bewilderment.

Marcus puts his hand on his chin, seemingly deep in thought, then he breaks out on a cheeky grin and gives Aidan two thumbs up.

Aidan continues to blink in response, and unsure of how to respond he simply nods. Master’s brother has given him combs before, but this is a first. He’s realized quite quickly that Marcus was a man who enjoyed grooming others, both animal and human alike. Apparently he takes care of a flock of birds in a similar fashion as well, according to Nathaniel.

Marcus looks down on the comb, eying some loose yellow strands from Aidan’s hair, then he purses his lips a little awkwardly. He points at it, then he points to himself.

_ <Can I… take?> _

...Huh?

Mostly out of habit at this point, he nods again, and Marcus takes the moment to do another small fist bump in the air before returning to his original spot and continuing to groom Diana. The perplexity of the situation is not lost on Aidan, but instead of wondering just what the man needs his hair for, he can only really think of something else.

Why doesn’t he just talk with him? Well, it’s no real issue but still. 

Regardless, the way Marcus smiles like he was just given a present makes Aidan’s chest ache slightly.

The unfamiliarity of just being a human with both of Master’s brothers is still too alien. But he thinks he could accept it. In due time, perhaps. The need to correct himself and others of his place is like a splinter forever embedded just beneath his flesh but impossible to retrieve. 

And something else that’s just like a splinter is the all too familiar feeling of being stared at.

Glancing towards where Master sits on the bed, he sees the brief scowl on her face before it disappears in seconds. She breaks eye contact with him before looking down at her stumps as Lauretta unbandages them.

He doesn’t know what that was. Or what it meant. But the niggling sense of worry comes back.

It’s like she’s different from the morning. Upset again at something. He doesn’t know what changed and it makes him anxious, perhaps _too_ anxious because he brushes Diana’s fur too harshly and the dog makes a small noise of annoyance. Aidan has to scratch the back of her ears to placate her.

He spends the rest of the time he’s allowed in the room watching Master and Lauretta. He doesn’t hear their conversation, but he can infer that Lauretta is teaching her how to properly bandage her stumps. He didn’t know there was a specific way to do it, but evidently there is. If the wild gesticulating that’s happening between the two women is anything to go by.

Soon enough, Master bandages her stumps by herself, and Lauretta gives her a playful punch on the shoulder while sniggering. 

Then Master is faced with a slightly bigger challenge.

He watches as Lauretta brings the wheelchair forward and Master makes her distaste for the thing known with her grimace. He thinks she says something about being able to do it on her own. When she sits up and puts her hands on the armrests of the chair, it begins moving away, and she huffs when she brings it back forward. The wheels squeak, making Diana’s ears flick backwards, and he doesn’t notice that he’s stopped brushing her fur.

Master attempts to lift herself, her arms wobbling, though she stops herself from trying to move her body to the seat because it starts moving away from her again.

Wrought with the desire to assist her, Aidan stands, though it’s Marcus that moves towards her. Not without twisting his ankle awkwardly and almost falling, however. Master’s grimace deepens.

Lauretta then holds the back of the chair in place so that it won’t slip away from Master. Aidan tiptoes over the now sleeping Diana, standing anxiously behind Marcus, never quite getting close enough. It’s like he’s at the outside of their bubble, and something makes him stay there.

After a second try, Master is successfully able to transfer from her bed to the chair. Lauretta claps. Marcus bounces on his feet excitedly.

But the rigid tightness of Master’s expression doesn’t leave her. 

It makes Aidan feel distinctly unfulfilled and— _disappointed_. 

It’s a sinking feeling.

* * *

In the evening, Aidan does something that he would probably receive a beating over if he were still with Dark Hair.

He goes into his bed.

But not without concentrated effort. It’s simple enough going into the bed, but _staying_ there? That takes some convincing. He turns around in the bed, once, twice, three times. The mattress is a frightening sensation as much as it’s comforting. It’s disconcerting—

Hands slithered beneath his shirt, one of the few times he was allowed to wear clothes. The nails scratched his skin. A body pressed against his back, a tongue trailed up the nape of his neck. He’s flipped over, and one of the hands then went to cup his crotch.

Words were spoken. What rings in his head is not what he actually heard that night, it’s a new script but it’s not any less venomous.

_“To think you’re any different from an animal. What do you do with a dog that doesn’t know how to obey it’s master? You put it down.”_ _  
  
_

Then fingers forced their way down his mouth—

Aidan vacates the conflicting space of the bed by falling on the floor again, chest heaving and sweat dampening his brow. The air is still save for his erratic breathing that takes minutes to calm down.

His own fingers ghost around his lips, his thoughts drifting back to Master’s fingers.

Why didn’t she just take him there?

Then, a dangerous thought.

_I’m glad she didn’t._

His chest aches and he presses his face against the cold floor. The voice in his head— it’s usually Dark Hair’s voice. Or at least it’s… biting. Forceful. This one is soft and hitched. Pathetic. Small. Just like him.

He wonders if he would have sounded like that if he had a voice. It was reminiscent of how father sounded.

He thinks about the brothel. He did what they taught him. He took what she wanted to give him. He doesn’t think he did anything obviously wrong, except maybe he was meant to begin removing her undergarments? So he can begin licking her down _there?_ If he did so, would she have felt less upset today?

Goosebumps assail his skin. He’s used his mouth like that before, yet somehow doing it for Master makes him feel… different. He can feel his face begin to warm and he scrunches his brows together.

It’s his duty to please her. He’s very much aware of that fact and he obviously wouldn’t have stopped her if she decided she wanted to continue. And yet there’s a _stupid_ little voice in the back of his head that says something about being glad she didn’t do so again.

He— doesn’t want that. The irony is not lost on him. What a fucking unproductive and useless thought.

With a huff, Aidan picks himself up and shakes his head. He looks back at the bed and squints. The mattress is an alien feeling. Something associated with wandering hands. But he should use it, because Master’s brothers think him human. And who knows who else has that misunderstanding. He needs to take whatever advantages are given to him.

He’ll get used to it in due time, he thinks again.

He retreats back into the covers to try sleeping again. 

He ignores the real reason for doing so— to avoid thinking of Master’s fingers.

* * *

A week passes without incident. Though that soon changes.

Marcus brings in her breakfast with a tea cart, early enough that Lauretta hasn’t shown up yet, and now Aidan’s been escorted by Saskia to continue his lessons. It’s just the two of them, save for a nurse that does her own thing, but they’re practically invisible at this point.

As has become custom, he lights up some incense and the quiet air is soon tinctured with the scent. It smells of amber this time, which is believed to help with healing. Apparently it’s become a popular scent for the hospitals. Alongside it is a single peach and a glass bottle of milk, both of which aren’t for breakfast. 

Her brother slathers some raspberry jam on toast when he answers her questioning gaze. 

“It’s become a bit of a trend leaving peaches and milk at local altars. It’s meant to bring good luck for a man to find a good wife! I’m going to the cathedral to give my offering after breakfast.”

Frea raises a brow with the slightest hint of a smirk. “When did offerings get so specific?”

“Ever since the war ended! Peaches and milk is also supposed to assist with fertility!”

“Mhm.” Is her noncommittal reply. She chews on the toast, mind playing back to something she had read in the paper. Something about needing to increase the female population now that Asnain has lost almost an entire generation of women to battle. Some brothels are being called ‘stud farms’ now, which is… well, the whole issue has been a bit controversial, judging by the discussions she would sometimes hear over the radio.

Marcus leans forward, still smiling, though his brows are pinched slightly together.

“Oh, Frey-Frey, it’s been forever since we’ve had our morning prayers together. I do hope we can do it again sometime, it would be so wonderful to… to go back to normal, don’t you think?”

_Normal_ will never happen again, though she keeps the bitter thought to herself. She can’t deny that she at least misses the smell of musky prayer books and the solitary contemplation that only an empty cathedral can give. Maybe it would be nice to visit it again but the thought gives her a sudden spike of anxiety she can’t quite describe.

She opts to make her reply devoid of any of the current emotions she’s feeling right now.

“Perhaps when I am able to walk again.”

It does what she hoped to achieve— Marcus becomes visibly more relaxed. “Oh, fantastic! That’s still in a few months, correct? I still hope it aligns with the Matyrs’ Festival. That would be such perfect timing! Ah, some nights I can’t sleep because I’m so excited to see you mobile again.”

“...Thank you,” Frea sighs through her nose, but a small smile plays on her lips, “I look forward to being able to walk again as well.”

She _is_ excited, truly, but despite the possibility of walking again seemingly being in reach it also… feels like an impossibility. Like she’s swimming through tumultuous waves, and she’ll never reach the shore no matter how much she thrashes in the water.

Marcus is in the midst of brewing a second pot of tie with a small portable stove top when he titters onto another subject.

“And once you’re able to walk I’m sure I’ll be able to fluently sign,” he does some excited hand movements, though Frea isn’t sure if he’s trying to demonstrate his signing since she can’t read any of it, “I’ve never really thought about it, but don’t you think fluttering your fingers around like that… it’s so artistic! I’m sure Acadia would approve of it.” He puffs out his chest in pride, “I’ll be able to communicate with Aidan soon enough!”

In a near imperceptible movement, Frea’s eye twitches. Her irritation exists as an ever present glow, like the background static of a radio, and it’s a feeling she’s loath to admit that she’s become very familiar with at this point. She holds the handle of her teacup with perhaps too much force, but the action makes her keep the annoyance away from the tone of her voice. Miraculously, she manages to say her next words _without_ clenching her teeth together.

“I’m sure he’s been making some strides in understanding Asnainian,” and oh, is that a fact she hates, “He’s not deaf, Marcus. You don’t have to speak with him solely with sign language.”

There’s a small jolt at Marcus’ shoulders, almost making him spill his tea. His eyes widen slightly, and there’s a… _poignant_ clenching of his jaw.

Frea’s expression twists into one of disbelief. 

“Marcus…”

He covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh dear…”

“I _told_ you he was mute. You heard me speak with him!”

A hot blush overtakes her brother’s face and he ineffectively attempts to fan himself with his hand, eyes darting to every corner of the room while staunchly refusing to look at Frea.

“I-I-It may have… slipped my mind…” The poor man looks as though he’s on the verge of tears when he buries his face in his hands, “I’ve only heard of signing for the deaf… when I was studying it… I just…”

At Frea’s astonished silence he practically wails, “Oh, Frey-Frey! Was that rude? It was, wasn’t it! I made a horrible assumption!”

She rubs her forehead, uttering a soft _‘oh my god’_ in the process, though she can’t quite suppress the chuckle that escapes her. Marcus, bless his heart, attempts to return to normalcy and drink his tea, but he’s still a sweltering ball of embarrassment. 

“I-I wonder if there are any offerings that can be used to ask Acadia that she makes me less…” He downs his tea in a single gulp, “What is it that you said that one time? Airheaded?” He sighs dramatically, “And I may as well beg that she relieve me of my clumsiness as well…”

“Well, do whatever works for you to remember that he can hear you.”

She ignores the invasive thought of her wishing that he continued to think him deaf. Not like that would do her much good. The vague sense of irritation is not abated despite her genuinely enjoying Marcus’ company and general buffoonery.

The conversation then segways into a topic she was wholly expecting the moment he mentioned the offerings.

“Perhaps if I become less clumsy one of the noble houses might find me attractive enough to send mother a letter of interest…”

“And here I was under the impression that you tripping everywhere was a tactic to get women’s attention.”

He puts his hand on his chest, aghast, though there’s humour that twinkles in his eyes. “Frey-Frey! I’ll have you know I would never deign to lower myself to concoct some wily masculine schemes such as that…” Marcus pauses, eyes widening as though he remembered something. “On the notion of schemes… I’ve read that there are men attempting to make the Faraday Law Academy accept male students!”

He says it in such a scandalous tone that Frea thinks she should be agreeing with something. Instead she gestures to him to continue.

“Come now, Frey-Frey, everyone knows they want to get accepted into law school to find a good woman! It’s a smart tactic, I must say. Only the very best get into Faraday, after all.” He waves his hand between the two of them, “But so much effort… surely that time would better be spent grooming oneself, or more importantly focusing on fatherhood. I can’t imagine how neglectful a man becomes with his looks if he wastes his time studying, which is no doubt something better left to his wife.”

Admittedly, while the whole… men issue or whatever it is people like to call it is something Frea has been peripherally aware of, it’s not something she’s been spending too much attention on.

So she attempts to be as vaguely diplomatic as possible with her reply. “We lost a lot of women in the war. I suppose there are some men who believe themselves capable of filling in the gaps.”

Marcus huffs. “Oh please. A man? Becoming a lawyer? Preposterous. A man ought to focus on his children!” 

“...Well, you would know more about how a man thinks more than I ever could.”

Apparently satisfied with that reply, a triumphant smirk twitches onto Marcus’ expression. “The effort some men go through is commendable. But like I said, the effort is better spent with the upkeep of appearances so that one’s mother and sisters can deal with future letters and arrangements.” His leg bounces for a moment, though he stops himself, and he opts to cross his arms with another huff.

“I admit… it’s bothersome, to a degree. Here are these men getting all nosey with women, potentially getting their attention, and I’m here with not a single letter of interest! At the age of twenty-five!”

Ah. Things are starting to come together for Frea.

“You’re still young Marcus. I’m sure you’ll get a spouse.”

For a moment, he looks as though he’s about to nervously nibble on his fingernails, though once more he forcibly stops himself. His expression contorts in a look of distaste.

“You don’t understand, Frey-Frey! I heard that a man loses much of his fertility once he begins edging closer and closer to the age of thirty! No one likes a scraggly old thing who can’t give them children.” Seemingly not content with that amount of self-flagellation, he continues. 

“I spend hours making sure I look presentable.” He gestures to his entire body, “My thighs! My skin! My face! I make _very_ certain that everything is perfect. It would be foolish not to do so, especially when I take Diana outside. Every man must be cognizant that his future spouse might see him when he’s permitted to go outside. And… and…!”

He throws his hands up in growing exasperation as he looks away sharply.

“I receive no attention from potential suitors while these— these harlots think they can waltz into a feminine space and pretend to be a scholar until a woman takes notice of them. It’s so endlessly frustrating!”

Marcus huffs once more, this time with a tone of finality to it. He angrily bites into a slice of toast, his ire made apparent with how he practically slams the thing back on the plate. Frea half expects him to break off into a meek apology about being rude, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, he mentions the name of someone she didn’t expect to hear nor does she actually want to be forced to think about again.

“I’m sure your own spouse will be well-acquainted with my frustrations— the amount of attention you give Aidan would drive any man up the wall!” He says it like a joke, and it very obviously _is_ one with how he chuckles and grins. It’s something to lighten the mood. Really, it’s a harmless remark.

But it makes Frea’s irritation just about to _explode._

_Him? Again? And right now? Why does everyone feel the need to— to—_

She doesn’t even take note of the ludicrous nature of her even getting a spouse in the first place. Frea’s eye twitches, and she pulls on a strand of hair to distract herself.

“What—What does Aidan have to do with any of this?” She splutters.

Marcus blinks, his mischievous smirk growing wider. “Oh come now, everyone knows how you like to lord over him like a sheepdog over her flock.” He leans in for a whisper, “It’s why I’ve toiled away in combing his hair and sharing some of my cosmetics. I refuse to be the only one who feels as though undeserving men are catching the eyes of women. I want to make whatever man who wishes to get your attention feel the same frustrations I do! Oh, how devilish of me!”

_It’s a joke,_ she reminds herself, _it’s a fucking joke don’t get up in arms about it._ Marcus is laughing about it. She should laugh. Then she would feel _better_ but instead she feels like she’s currently being suffocated under a massive boulder. For fucking Marcus of all people to apparently be aware of her posessiveness makes her feel sick. And _humiliated._

More than anything, the admission of _anyone_ spending time with him— it stabs at her like an icepick. More so than the knowledge of his lessons with Saskia because they don’t… they don’t just _say_ anything about _it._ Here, with this being said, even as a joke, it’s like the dull ache of a thousand paper cuts laced across her skin. 

Because it is a reminder. A reminder that nothing will ever truly go her way. She controls nothing. She is nothing. Repulsive, hideous, and weak— she can’t even keep a slave in her grasp.

Every moment she’s reminded of that every present fact, it’s like the wounds on her legs reopen and weep until she bites back at someone.

“You know Marcus, perhaps the reason no woman has expressed interest in you is because they don’t find your constant blathering about being rude and finding a wife very endearing.”

It’s a stupid thing to say. She knows that. She _knows._

_But it’s his fault for even bringing him up anyway._

Marcus gasps softly, eyes widening, and it doesn’t take a genius to infer that she’s offended the man. Like a bright flash the thought of him laughing behind her back plays in her mind. And why wouldn’t he— sister and pitiful heir to the Valentine estate, someone who’s been bedridden for weeks now and is apparently acting like a fucking sheepdog, too! She’s a comedy for the fucking ages! Surely he must gossip about her to his stupid friends! 

_He only comes here every morning so he can tell everyone more stories about what an embarrassment you are._

Her next words come out like a growl.

“In Northern Asnain, men are required to have done prostitution before they can marry. Perhaps you should move to the North because you'll fit right in there! You've got the first part down, so it would only be a matter of time before you get married!”

There’s a harsh screech on the floor from Marcus’ chair being violently pushed back as he stands suddenly. His lips quiver, but Frea only glares at him, as if daring him to make another insipid comment; which is exactly what he does.

“I… I just—” His voice wobbles, “I just don’t want to become a spinster like Nathaniel!”

Her mind flutters with brief bewilderment at the mention of someone who literally wasn’t relevant to the conversation at hand, but she doesn’t have time to ruminate on it further as Marcus makes a mad dash for the door. His heavy footsteps echo thunderously as he runs away.

There’s still endless irritation that builds up inside of her in waves.

She _really_ wants to hit something. But she can’t. Because her body is fucking _useless_ as it is. So instead she directs her anger at Marcus— what a petulant fucking child. He had that coming in then some. Maybe now he’ll know not to try to steal Aidan away from her because— because that’s _exactly_ what him and everyone else around here is trying to do.

_Aidan._

Her teeth harshly rub against each other.

She really should have fucked him when he got the chance, but she knows that will never happen. Nothing she wants will ever happen because her life is just one joke after another.

Her teeth only continue to grind when her eyes land on a _very_ uncomfortable looking nurse who doesn’t seem to know whether to stand there or leave the room. Frea will make her choice for her.

Picking up one of her pillows, she flings it at her.

“Go away!”

Predictably, the nurse makes her fumbling escape.

And as the seconds pass, nothing feels like a victory.

Frea covers herself with the bedsheets, and lays there for the rest of the day.

* * *

“Huh, Marcus isn’t here. Shocking.”

A tuft of unruly chestnut brown hair peeks from Frea’s bedroom door, and as sluggish as she currently feels, she makes an effort to sit up straighter to greet him.

“Hello, Nathaniel. Is there something you need?”

His body remains hidden because of the door, and he makes no effort to go into the room, opting to seemingly use the entryway as a shield. He looks at her blankly, and Frea steadfastly ignores the implications of him mentioning Marcus, and she tries to school her expression to reveal her growing tension. He knows what happened. Marcus _is_ a loud man.

It feels like someone is about to pick a fight with her. Like she has to prepare herself for an upcoming onslaught.

“No, I don’t need anything.” He says at length, his long observational gaze making her growing in discomfort. “Well, I don’t need anything as much as you need to apologize to Marcus.”

It hits her like whiplash, something that would make her abruptly halt if she were currently doing anything. A hard swallow, and a quick, cautious glance around the room makes a sickening feeling cement into Frea’s body. Why does her room suddenly feel like a prison cell and that she's currently awaiting judgement?

Why does her family feel the need to be her prison wardens?

_They’re against me. They always have been. Against me, against me, againstmeagainstmeagainstme—_

She squints at him, feeling her palms begin to become clammy.

“It was just a childish spat.”

“He’s been in his room the whole day.”

“He’ll be fine. It doesn’t concern you.”

Nathaniel tilts his head like a curious cat, his expression not giving her anything to work with. “He mentioned me.”

She feels on constant edge, like everyone is doing this intentionally. They _must_ be, until she becomes exhausted and withered. Until she loses her guard to fatigue and her growing list of weaknesses so they can… they can…

_Just what exactly are they going to do?_ A voice rings, sounding utterly perplexed, as if her own mind is confounded by her own bouts of stupidity.

Her throat becomes parched.

“So what?” She bites out harshly. “Why do you care? Just leave.”

At that, Nathaniel raises a skeptical brow. “You’re my sister? And he’s my brother? I don’t like it when people fight. It gets too loud. I read in a book that apologies fix everything.” There is no inflection in his tone, and despite the irritation she’s beginning to feel from this conversation Frea finds herself growing envious.

Nathaniel enters the room, but only for a brief moment as he picks up a discarded book that Frea hadn’t even noticed— It’s the book of sign language, likely Marcus’ copy, he must have left it here after their spat and she doesn’t even remember him bringing it with him this morning. The revelation stings like nettles. _Forgettable,_ or perhaps _hopelessly unobservant_ is a better fit, something else to add to her growing list of failures. The smaller things, she’s— she can’t focus on them anymore, like a horse with its blinders on.

Her brother absentmindedly flips through its pages, commenting idly, “Guess I’ll just borrow this real quick. It’s a little different from the others I’ve read. Has more stuff.”

Frea is propelled only by a conflict that burns inside the very marrow of her bones and threatens to swallow her whole. She’s hit with a feeling of disorientation, and she’ll later come to realize she’s on the verge of tears— her endless frustrations compounded by the fact her mind currently screams at her, and now she thinks she knows something else. This is what Aidan must have felt when he first met her.

“Why?” She chokes out, “Are you trying to…?” Her words taper off into silence, but her meaning is clear.

Nathaniel tilts his head again, and with the book cradled in one of his arms he begins rubbing his knuckles with his fingers.

“Are you going to yell at me too?” There’s a pull on his lips, a slight frown, “You’ve become such a deadbeat since you came back, Frey-Frey. Why are you so upset about everything?”

She barks out a single humourless laugh, a sense of delirium setting into Frea’s veins, not unlike when she was riding the train towards Lullin. A migraine implants itself in her head, her skull feeling too tight, and she feels the need to bite out a retort.

_“Deadbeat?_ That’s rich, coming from you.”

Nathaniel blinks incredulously. “You think I’m a deadbeat?”

“Do you _really_ need me to answer that fucking question?” Despite what people might say about him and him generally being a recluse, Frea knows her brother isn’t a complete moron. He can infer just fine from the tone of her voice what her answer would be, and she hopes her icy glare makes him just leave already. “He’s _my_ muse, not yours.”

_Stop trying to take the only thing I have left away from me,_ she wants to scream, _I hate you— I hate all of you—_

Nathaniel’s frown becomes more pronounced, and likewise the rubbing of his knuckles becomes faster.

“I don’t like how mean you’ve gotten.” He says quietly before quickly turning to leave.

And for the second time, nothing feels like a victory.

Instead she heaves, letting out a series of breaths she didn’t know she was holding. It’s ragged and laboured, and the air that enters her itches the innards of her throat. 

Then, like fucking _always,_ she thinks back to Aidan.

_I want to slap him, I want to cradle him on my lap, I want to slap him—_

Pins and needles prickling at his skin, and her next words are muttered to the empty silence of her room.

“I don’t know what I want anymore.”

* * *

Aidan shifts his weight on his knees, brows slightly pinched together as he watches Nathaniel lying on the floor, nibbling on the end of his pencil. He stops the action in favour of rubbing his knuckles, apparently deciding to voice his thoughts.

“I think my siblings hate me.”

A dull, heavy thing weighs itself in his chest in a feeling he isn’t sure of. Nathaniel turns his head to look at him, and Aidan sees the disquiet flicker on his expression, and he feels something else within him again.

His own expression must give Nathaniel his reply, and the man’s lips twitch upwards.

“You didn’t hear it?” He asks, and Aidan shakes his head, unsure of what he’s referencing. Was he supposed to hear something? He’s just been doing his lessons and been in the kitchen for the entire day. 

Nathaniel snickers for a moment, “Maybe you don’t have very good hearing.”

Was that meant to be an insult? It seems like it should be, yet the way he says it— Aidan hears no ill will behind his words. It does not bother him— another alien feeling that he tells himself that he will, in due time, become used to.

These new things— a bit exciting even, but he will only come to realize such a thing later.

Nathaniel rolls on his stomach, his eyes now holding a hint of curiosity. “Say, why does my sister call you her muse?”

At the mention of Master, Aidan reacts before he is even conscious of it, bringing his hands up to make a response before realizing he doesn’t actually have an answer. He brings his hands down with a shrug. The feeling of anxiety over Master… _not_ sleeping with him has yet to leave him, but there’s the warmth of slowly burning embers beginning to form in his stomach.

“Muse. It’s something that inspires artists. That’s a pretty big deal around here.” Nathaniel says nonchalantly, his gaze falling to his hands as his voice becomes wistful. Soft. “I have a muse, too.”

Aidan blinks, and while his mind is still on the _inspire_ part— he inspires Master?! Such a thing… surely he is unworthy of such a thing…Maybe he used the wrong word… —he becomes curious about the rest of his comment.

_ <Really?> _Aidan signs, and Nathaniel’s smile grows wider. It’s a common reaction each time he’s able to understand him.

“Yeah.” He says, a light pinkess forming on his cheeks and Aidan tilts his head, something he might have picked up from Master’s brothers’… eccentricities. Nathaniel then sits, pointing at him with the pencil. “On another note, I tried reading a new book about signing, but you’re a better teacher anyway. But first I’ll show you how to draw something new.”

He opens up his sketchbook to a new page, not glancing up at Aidan when he asks, “So, you know what an elephant is?”

* * *

In the middle of the night, while Frea is reading a book— the contents of which she doesn’t even register since the day has just been blur, she doesn’t remember much of anything— she hears the steady and quick steps. It practically booms in her eardrums, and she knows exactly who this is.

Mother enters the room, her pace like a soldier in a march. Her expression is unreadable, though her words feel like a myriad of broken glass.

“I leave to assist with matters regarding the Cult and when I return I am made aware of you throwing a tantrum,” She says, and before Frea can even think of defending herself, she instead instinctually hunches her shoulders, cowering like a dog with its tail between its legs.

And before she can think of anything else, mother’s hand cracks across Frea’s face.

It’s as loud as a clap and forces Frea to snap her head back, a single dot of blackness invading her field of vision before it disappears. Sharp and biting, it’s destined to sting for the rest of evening and leave an ugly mark— though her hideous birthmarks will make any red welt invisible. 

She lets out a small startled gasp, jaw tightening and unable to vocalize anything else. A feeling of shame prevents her from saying anything, and the realization that this is the first time she’s ever been hit by her mother makes her hang her head in defeat.

And— behind her, she hears her own laughter, but it morphs as a caricature of itself.

“And you have the gall to put your own brother’s reputation in jeopardy. What if the nurse that heard you decided to repeat such a thing to unworthy ears? You’re very fortunate I put a stop to such a thing before it began.”

Frea has no response, her anger and irritation presents itself once more, but perhaps appropriately this time— it is aimed towards herself. A distinct chilling in the air heralds the coming feeling that will dominant her sleep: utter misery.

At her lack of response, mother makes her final comment, and while she’s not looking at her face Frea is sure she must be narrowing her eyes.

“If you insist on acting like a child, I will treat you as one.”

Mother’s footsteps signal her departure, and soon Frea doesn’t hear them anymore.

There’s a low static in her mind, and she lies down, staring at the blank ceiling.

She ignores the onset of sniffling that comes out of her, and she covers herself with the bed sheet. She only lifts the covers when Aidan makes his timed appearance.

* * *

The week becomes a month. 

Marcus returns sheepishly to give her breakfast, though it’s awkward and he never puts in the extra effort to keep a conversation going. It’s clear he only does it because someone told him to.

Frea quickly becomes aware that the moments she has Aidan resting on her lap are the only things she looks forward to in the day.

She doesn't do anything else with him.

* * *

Esme introduces a new game, one that can be played with four people. Something called Sternhalma, and admittedly, the star shaped board made Aidan more enticed than anything else. The goal of the game is to get his pieces from one corner of the star to another before anyone else by hopping over other player’s pieces.

It reminds him of rabbits, but also of that game where he would jump over someone else’s back. Leapfrog, he thinks it’s called. He remembers playing that with the other boys at the brothel.

When he told Esme that, she gave him a funny look. Something between looking uncomfortable and smiling at his quip. She quickly changed the subject.

It feels slightly odd sitting at the table and chairs in the garden. He’s served the food, and a part of him does feel as though he should be standing to the side like he’s used to, but Esme has insisted he sit here with her, Lauretta and Master. To play the game with all of them. His feet twitch to the music that plays on the radio inside, and a light breeze kisses his skin. He opts to not drink his hot chocolate, instead waiting for Master to begin hers, though despite Esme and Lauretta imbibing in their drinks, she has yet to touch hers.

It’s one of the reasons he finds himself unable to become fully calm, despite sitting _here_ with _them—_ this should be the greatest moment of this life, really. Sitting with these women in this moment of placidness and just… existing. It’s something he has had needed to become accustomed to, but he’s yet to fully indulge himself— a dangerous want, he tells himself, but the voice in his head is slowly becoming soft and harder to hear— because Master is just… different.

She’s upset, that much is obvious. The tightness in her expression does not leave anything up for debate. She’s become so _quiet_ over the past month, to the point Aidan wonders if she lost her voice somehow. She plays the game, with slightly sluggish movements, but does not say anything. She staunchly refuses to look at him, too, despite her sitting near him to his right.

That bothers him the most, and while he might not tell himself to not indulge in desires that are not his as often anymore, another niggling concern has since kept him awake at night.

_You should have pleasured her. Pleasured her like_ that.

It’s been a month.

And yet that night plays itself over and over whenever he does sleep.

A bump on his shoulder takes him out of his regrets, and sheer necessity has made him have a decent grasp on the Asnainian language so he understands Lauretta’s words.

“Your turn, buddy!” She says, though there’s something in her voice that tells Aidan she’s forcing her joviliaty. The same could be said for Esme every time she attempts a smile.

Everyone is walking on eggshells. It makes Aidan bite his lip, and he does his next move, then from beneath the table, he… just pulls Esme’s sleeve, who sits at his left. Lightly, as to not garner attention from the other two. The older woman blinks for a moment, glancing towards him and Aidan briefly finds himself at a loss at what to do next.

He merely gives her a pleading look, eyes flicking towards Master for a quick second before looking back to the board game.

Maybe he’s making things up, but he thinks from the corner of his eyes he sees Esme’s lips twitch upwards, and he feels her hand reassuringly squeezing his hand for a few seconds before he lets her sleeve go.

It makes him relax the tension in his body, just a little bit.

They continue the game until the end, at times making short and idle conversation. Master wins the game.

* * *

Frea stares blankly at the thick, heavy book on her lap as she focuses on the hooting of the owls that have awoken in the inky blackness of the evening. Having now returned to her room after playing the stiffest game of Sternhalma she’s ever played she’s faced with something she’s been dreading on receiving since the first discussion she had with mother since the accident.

The _‘Big Book of Bachelors’_ as Nathaniel had snidely put it one time. A large tome of a thing that houses the portraits, names, ages and short biographies of the available men in the area. It’s never been something she thought she would look into since she just assumed mother would be in charge of the whole marriage process, but she’s given the odious pleasure of apparently choosing her own suitor. She doesn’t retain any of the information she reads, soon finding herself quickly getting to the _V_ section out of pure curiosity.

_Valentine, Marcus. Date of Birth: Fecalst 31st, 1889. Year of the Labrador. Virgin._

_Marcus enjoys making hair wreaths and embroidery, as well as bird watching. He is an excellent tea brewer and all those who know him will all say he is a man who is eager to please._

_He has no defects or long term illnesses._

_He is an alumnus from the Acadian School for Gifted Men in Epcarres. Only women with one of more of the following degrees will be considered: Master of Law, Master of Engineering, Master of Religion, Master of Natural Studies, Master of Commerce, Master of Arts. Master of Law is preferred._

_Matriarch Valentine has asked that only those from the Alfar province send their letters of interest. Those born outside of Asnain will not be considered._

Frea’s brow twitches, and ignores Nathaniel’s absence from this ridiculous book. The more she thinks about it, the more absurd the very idea becomes. How often is this thing updated? Does everyone just get revised editions when a certain amount of men get wedded off? Who the hell is keeping track of everything, anyway? Looking at this thing… she just becomes uncomfortable for Marcus’ sake, jaw tightening at a stabbing feeling when she just thinks of her brother.

Blowing an annoyed breath between her teeth, her eyes gaze over more pages. She merely glances at the names.

_von Leventis, Julian._

_von Lewen, Jekyll._

_von Lewall, Bartholomew._

_…_

“Any catch your interest?”

Frea purses her lips together, needing to force out a reply. “I was under the impression that I wouldn’t have any say in this… matter.” Daughters and sons generally have no idea who they’re marrying until their parents introduce them, though there are some exceptions like mother, apparently. 

Mother leans on the doorway as she wipes down her cane with a cloth. 

“I had imagined that you would be more willing to the idea if you could choose a man you fancy.”

_More willing,_ her hands grip the book tighter, _to put my body through_ that.

“I don’t understand,” Frea says, “You said you would treat me like a child. You mainly want me to give you another heir. I don’t need to get married, you can send in a prostitute, or use a lowborn. Like what you did.”

Her voice turns into a mumble in the middle of it, and she has to stop herself from cringing. She wants to sleep with neither and she’s sure she’s making that fact abundantly clear. Mother stops wiping down the cane when she speaks, her icy gaze finally landing on Frea.

“In order to create an heir with desirable traits, a desirable man is needed.” Her expression doesn’t change, yet her gaze begins to feel different. “Commoners and prostitutes produce poor seeds. I know that now. It was my mistake to allow them to lay with me.”

Frea’s lips part, but not a word comes out, and mother returns to focusing on the cane.

She had always assumed that. Her being a disappointment— it’s the worst kept secret in Asnain. But for mother to just… just… vocalize it like that…

That hurt.

Frea thinks she would rather have a knife to her skin than to hear words so cold. Mother’s rigid and unchanging expression makes it worse, the very least she could do is look at her with a supercilious gaze or just… _something._ That way Frea feels like she could feel… justified over everything. But she doesn’t. Instead, she becomes only vaguely aware of the pain in her legs, and the burning ache in her chest and throat.

She flips through more pages. She does not make any special note of the men she sees, nor does she remember anything after going through the entire book.

* * *

Laying in bed in the pitch blackness, Frea stares at nothing. In the end she didn’t single out a man for this whole bachelor nonsense, mostly in an attempt to spite mother more than anything, but nothing came of it. Obviously. Nothing ever comes out from fucking anything she does. 

Having spent ample time wallowing in self-deprecation for the entirety of the afternoon, her mind drifts to her brothers.

Nathaniel wasn’t in the book, for obvious reasons, and she thinks about the exact moment he lost his worth in mother’s eyes.

He had just reached the age of when boys usually get sent to the Academy in Epcarres. Marcus had returned home to visit for the holidays before going back to school. She had idly watched the two of them from above the stairs, most preoccupied with the book of scripture in her hands that she had been studying, though her young mind was often distracted.

_“Oh, Nathaniel! I’m so, so excited to have you coming with me to school!! I’ll show you around everywhere. I’ll be the best senior ever!”_

Nathaniel scrunched his brows in a perplexed look, hand rubbing over his knuckles. Marcus then unceremoniously shoved the Academy’s green and yellow uniform towards him, though Nathaniel only responded by taking a step back. Undaunted, his older brother continues excitedly.

_“You’ll be taught etiquette! Like me! It’ll be so much fun! We’ll even go on a train to get the Academy, it’s on— on a… um… it’s on a pe— penin— peanut…” Marcus shook his head, then remembered how to properly say it. “Peninsula!”_

Even from where she stood, Frea could see Nathaniel’s demeanor changing. He hunched his shoulders further inward, and she was sure his lips trembled as he spoke.

_“It’s… far.”_

_“Oh yes,”_ Marcus replied, seemingly oblivious and he pushed the clothing further closer to Nathaniel, _“On the other side of Asnain! And there’s so many other boys too, you’ll make so many friends!”_ He puffed out his chest, _“Don’t worry, big brother Marcus will be sure to drag you everywhere so you see everything, hehe!”_

Nathaniel’s limbs noticeably tense when he’s forced to hold his uniform, and while his voice is soft his words clear enough to hear.

_“I don’t know…. I don’t know…”_

Marcus blinked. Frea did so as well.

_“Nathaniel? Not know what? I just told you it’s on a peninsula, silly!”_

_“I don’t know… I don’t know…”_

Nathaniel’s breathing became shallow and quick as he repeated the same phrase over and over, Frea scrunched her face together in confusion, though this wasn’t the first time she’s seen this happen before. His breakdowns were usually a slow moving train wreck at first. As she continued to watch, she didn’t notice mother coming to stand beside her.

_“I don’t know…”_

Marcus couldn’t have known better, having been away from home because of his etiquette lessons in Epcarres, but he waved his hand in front of his brother’s face and pouted. 

_“Helloooooo? What’s wrong?”_

In an instant, Nathaniel dropped the clothes to the fall, his voice became wobbly. _“I-I don’t know,”_ he squeaked, his hand feverishly going over his knuckles as his eyes appeared to glaze over.

Then, he hiccuped, and a single tear slid down from his eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until soon, a steady stream of salty tears flowed it's way down his cheeks. The room echoed with his wailing shortly after, and a red-faced Marcus fumbled around, unsure of what to do.

Beside her, Frea heard mother’s fingernails tapping on the bannister which was shortly followed by a hum, which instinctively made her shoulders hunched. Glancing upwards, she saw mother wordlessly gesture towards Saskia, who quickly made her way towards the boys. Mother then left.

Nathaniel never went to Epcarres. He never really did much of anything after that, because mother apparently didn’t feel the need to take him anywhere. That upset Marcus greatly, and Frea now wonders if it was something he was ever able to actually get over.

Now thinking about Marcus, she reflects on some memories. She remembers a phase of when he had a stuffed falcon toy that he would place by his feet when he slept. Its job was supposed to protect him from snakes he thought lived in the walls.

She heaves a sigh, continuing to stare at the ceiling. A cynical thought passes through her mind, and she wonders if maybe she should pull a tantrum like Nathaniel to get out of what mother wants from her. Maybe she should pull _several_ tantrums. If mother is going to treat her like a son rather than a daughter, maybe she _should_ act like one.

Though remembering mother’s slap puts an end to that thought rather quickly.

Sighing again, she thinks of more memories.

She would prefer tantrums and childish beliefs over anything.

* * *

“Have you ever fallen asleep with food in your mouth?”

Frea gives Lauretta the sideway glance, huffing lightly as she bends her knees and lifts her legs as she lays on her back. The medic looks at her earnestly, and the ridiculousness of the question makes Frea lift a brow. 

“No…?”

Lauretta nods sagely, “Once, I got tired of chewin’ and just blacked out. I was in med school, too.”

“Remind me again how you graduated.”

Snorting, Lauretta writes something on a clipboard, though there are times Frea doubts she’s actually writing anything at all. She continues bending her legs and lifting them, and the other woman asks another question.

“Y’know what I always wondered? Why the expression ‘cool as a cucumber’? Is a cucumber cooler than a tomato or rhubarb?” The mirth in her voice is tangible and downright scalding, though it’s something that makes Frea almost suspicious of her intentions. Lauretta’s little nonsensical quips have been growing more forced by the day, and at times she finds herself becoming increasingly tired of it.

“Are you hungry?” She asks dully, and she winces slightly at the feeling of a sudden cramp like sensation near her knees. Lauretta tuts, wiggling her pencil at Frea.

“That shit’s contracture. It’s muscle stiffness and tightness due to lack of motion.” She then points at her forehead with her pencil with a smile that borders on smug, “I wasn’t really trained in bedside manner, y’see. Or being, like, a nurse. So I’ve been studyin’ and learnin’ new shit. Puttin’ everythin’ I read in my humongous noggin. Guess I’ll be a lil’ bit of everythin’’ when Dr. Kippe is through with me.”

“Mhm.” Frea hums, “Even I know what contracture is. If you didn’t learn that in med school I have to wonder where commoner’s tax money is going.”

And she _would_ smirk at Lauretta’s scandalous gasp, if it weren’t for the sharp sting of pain that shoots through her legs for a quick few and yet agonizing seconds. As soon as it happens, it’s gone, though there’s a slight soreness that remains.

It’s fine. Just a slight bit of discomfort. Nothing she can’t handle.

_It’s fine._

Lauretta’s smile disappears. “Uh huh. And I know what _isn’t_ contracture when I see it. And it’s somethin’ I’ve been seein’ an awful lot of, too.” Before Frea can infer about her meaning, the woman produces a pill— the same one Dr. Kippe tried to give her. “You’re hurtin’, that much is clear. Shit gets fucked in your head and your brain thinks you still got legs. I get it. And I’m sure the stress ain’t helpin’ either. _And_ I heard you fell off the bed.”

She brings the pill forward, nodding towards Frea. “Look, Dr. Kippe told me that you don’t feel too hot when it comes to pills for whatever reason. But trust me, I took these bad boys myself when I had to get a kidney removed a year ago. Shit works. Most of the time, anyway. Can’t hurt to at least try, yeah?”

Frea refuses to look at the pill in question and attempts to keep her voice level, ignoring the feeling of impending doom beginning to wash over her. “You had to have a kidney removed?”

“Don’t dodge the issue.”

Acadia, she fucking hates it when Lauretta gets serious, and now Frea finds it difficult to keep eye contact with her.

“I pumped you with anesthetic when you lost your legs.” Lauretta says, “So why you actin’ like a single pill is gonna kill ya? I’ll make sure your doses are monitored. You got nothin’ to worry about.”

“Th—That’s different.” She shifts uncomfortably in her bed, her skin beginning to prickle slightly.

“Aaah, I didn’t know you held a Masters in medicine, good for you.”

The bite in her tone forces Frea to look at her, and immediately Lauretta relaxes her face, her leg bouncing up and down as she runs a hand through her chestnut hair.

“Sorry— I’m just… y’know, I get frustrated when I see you sometimes. You don’t need to deal with all this like you are.” Her eyes narrow, “Like, what are you tryin’ to prove by bein’ miserable all the time?”

At this confrontation, Frea can only stare, which spurs Lauretta on further, each word feeling like an icy stab.

“Trust me, I seen this shit before. Soldiers thinkin’ they’re too tough for things. It’s dumb as hell and makes your recovery slower.” There’s a twitch on her lips, and she attempts a smile. “Besides, you’re skinny as a twig. This whole tryin’ to be tough ‘n all doesn’t really fit you, heh.”

Another joke, another quip, another moment of feeling like she’s about to lit on fire with a crowd watching as they clap and cheer. 

She’s right, of course. She _knows_ everyone's true intentions for being here. She’s right. She knows she is. She’s right, right, _right._ She could explain all damn day and they won’t get it because they’re all laughing behind her back. She just— She just wants to walk out and slam this fucking door, hoping the sound would make their stupid brains rattle in their stupid skulls. But she can’t. So she’s forced to be the subject of the discussion every fucking time and each time they leave she knows continue to talk of her. She’s _right._

Lauretta’s next words further cement in the feeling that she’s correct in her assumption.

“Women always wanna be tough for their men. God, my brother’s wife does this shit all the time. I know you’re just tryin’ to be strong for Aidan so he doesn’t worry, yeah?” She reaches forward to playfully punch her on the shoulder with a wry grin, though it still makes Frea flinch violently.

“I’m fucking sick of hearing his name from other people’s lips.” She mutters quickly, hands unknowingly clenching and unclenching at her side.The brief few seconds of silence seems to go on for eons, the quiet making her ears rings.

Lauretta’s expression twitches as she frowns sharply. Apparently at a loss for words, she looks away and Frea sees her throat bobs as she swallows.

“Oh.” Is all the medic says, followed by a quick and awkward, “I see.”

More silence, save for Frea’s voice that rings out in her head. _“You can do better than that,”_ it says, without any sort of inflection. She wonders if doing ‘better’ means throwing Lauretta out of her house. That never happens, of course. Not like she’s been physically capable of doing literally anything these days except learn to fucking hate her bedroom. She watches Lauretta seemingly fumble with her hands before standing.

“...I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Despite the comment, Lauretta doesn’t actually return. She’s instead replaced by a tight faced Dr. Kippe. Frea does not say anything, and there is no more conversation to be had for the day. The silence borders on suffocating.

* * *

She lays prone in the void again.

Frea cannot see anything, perhaps blinded by the searing pain coursing through her body— for once, it doesn’t from her stumps, but rather it sears through her abdomen better than a branding iron, her mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion. Without meaning to her body curls into something fetal, something primeval and all the while the pain burns and radiates. When she curls in on herself she feels it, a bump. Her stomach is rounded.

And there’s something that’s coming out of her vagina.

The feeling isn't sharp like a needle point or a knife, it burns around her innards better than boiling water, and she’s forced to lay on her back again. Everything feels scalded and, move or not, and she thinks a bullet would be a mercy. Time has no meaning here, and the seconds feel like hours. The hours feel like days. It stretches into infinity.

She wants to escape from her own body.

She’s wanted that for a month now.

The pressure on her tailbone and pelvis becomes unimaginable when she’s forced to _push._ She has no idea what the fuck she’s doing, but the nightmare plays itself, feeling so horribly real that she thinks she might just bite her tongue off when she inevitably wakes up.

The… The _child_ coming out of her feels like someone is ripping apart her vagina with nails. She’s heard someone describe this moment as a ring of fire, and despite her knowing this is fake— as she desperately reminds herself time and time again— she too would describe the pain just like that. It _burns._

There are small lulls giving false hope of an end, only for the burning sensation to come crashing down on her. It's as though her blood has become acid, intent of destroying her from the inside out.

Then she hears it.

A screeching cry breaks through her eardrums. It mixes with her own screams, the mixing cries bordering on hysterical. It’s only when Frea is forced to remember some fucking sermon she listened to years ago is she formulate a coherent thought.

_“Oh, birth! The beautiful gateway for new life coming into the world! Truly the greatest form of art, that shows that since women create life, they should be the ones to rule it.”_

_Beauty,_ she could laugh if she wasn’t currently in the middle of wanting to fucking die. The more her body forcibly contracts the more she finds herself at a loss on why anyone would willingly put themselves through this torture.

Then— extraordinary relief floods her body. Her whole body shakes violently, and the baby cries with such ferocity that she covers her ears with her hands and bites her lip hard enough it begins to bleed. Steps echo in the void, and she knows exactly who the newcomer is.

Mustering the best glare she’s able, she watches the other Frea cradle the bloodied baby in her arms. 

As if on cue, her twin smirks.

“Aw, it’s a boy. How sad. Guess you’ll have to try again.”

Frea closes her eyes in defeat, the wailing of the baby still ringing in her head as it slowly, gradually begins to fade into nothingness. She lays there, wishing that she could just wake herself up already, and yet such a reprieve is never granted towards her. She then waits for this nightmare to repeat itself, but that too never happens.

So she lays there. Unable to do anything else, horribly akin to her daily life.

When she does open her eyes, she’s blinded by something else— white.

A whiteness so bright she thinks this is going to wake her up instead of everything else. Blinking in quick succession her eyes gradually begin to become used to the sudden new onset of blankness. It’s like a sterile laboratory, well, it would be, if it weren't for a very specific sensation that touched her skin— both a softness and a wetness. Experimentally moving her hand around the ground confirms her suspicions.

She’s in a field of snow now. Snow that has no temperature, apparently, as she feels none of the usual frigidness. Despite that, she can still see pale puffs of air whenever she breathes. Huffing an annoyed breath, she flaps her cheeks, but she remains in this new dream. Oh sure, the pain feels real but the snow doesn’t.

Angrily fitting the ground with her fists, she opens her eyes to see silvery flakes drifting down and she grimaces.

“Come on,” she mutters to the void, “Just show up again and pull off your usual shit so I can wake up already.”

As soon as she says it, a movement from behind her has Frea frozen; it's no more than a rustle but in her weary mind her heart is on a hair-trigger. More noise comes. She doesn’t think of how much more silent it usually is as she grabs a fistful of snow and flings it behind her, mouth parting to let out a scream.

Instead of the insufferable specter of herself, she’s rendered speechless when her eyes land on a rabbit. A white hare that’s almost imperceptible due to the snow, and without warning it darts from its spot, it's under-tail bobbing furiously as it kicks at the springy ground.

This time, she does laugh. It’s a low chuckle of disbelief, and she runs her hand through her hair.

“What the hell.” She says before rubbing her forehead, closing her eyes once more. “Just wake up already.”

When she opens her again, she sees legs, which instinctively makes her muscles tense. It’s not… _her_ feet. Dainty bare toes peek out from golden sandals, leading up to white robes that hang around the ankles with translucent silks. As her gaze continues upwards she sees long, soft red hair that borders. Soon, she sees a perfectly symmetrical face, and pale blue eyes that reflect like shimmering pools. Her long, elegant lashes blinking patiently, it’s almost hypnotizing to watch.

Though the sight still makes Frea’s lip curl in a grin that borders on delirious.

“Ah…” She swallows, “Acadia. Hah… haha… I’ve really lost it.” She begins pulling on her hair, lips quivering and breath stuttering. “You’re a little late. I’ve already had my crisis of faith, or whatever you want to call it. So hurry up and change into that bitch. I know you want to.”

The woman doesn’t morph into her twin like Frea expects to, instead she remains looking like every painting she’s ever seen of Acadia, all pious like. Her sheer radiant beauty begins to make her feel self conscious about her current state, despite this being in her head. Out of growing frustration and a vain hope to wake herself up, she pulls on her hair again, hissing from between her teeth.

“Will it be worth it?”

The question makes Frea freeze, this supposed goddess’ voice is serene and woven with a nobility and purpose. 

She begins to feel the coldness from the snow, and yet it’s not as terrible a sensation as she expects it to be. Paradoxically it almost feels like an embrace from a warm blanket.

Blinking, she stares at the woman, who continues to speak.

“You will find yourself alone if you continue like this.”

_Ah._ This must be a new form of torture her treacherous mind has decided to conjure up. Ignoring the sudden ache that forms like a pit in her chest, she grabs a fistful of the surrounding snow and throws it at Acadia, who does not flinch— not even when Frea begins to scream.

“Fuck off! What do you know?! I’m— I’m the victim!” Her voice cracks pathetically and she flinches at it, her hands clawing at her hair as she feels her eyes begin to water. This looming apparition should promise severe castigation, but instead warm hands that gently begin to hold hers instead promise a disbelieving comfort, though it is not enough to still the tremors of her fingertips.

“It’s not my fault,” Frea splutters out, Acadia’s eyes boring a hold into her, “It’s n-not my fault.”

“People do not owe you endless patience while you refuse to find help and continue to make excuses for yourself.”

The creeping thorny feeling in her gut increases tenfold, and she chokes out a gasp. She swallows, a small attempt to recenter herself and to fixate her effort to distract herself, mainly with thoughts of ripping this woman’s eyes out. Of _waking up._

She thinks back to every act of what she calls petty defiance against everyone around her, her multiple boiling points. Each moment was characterized with a feeling that was manic.

There’s a revelation of sorts. One too bright and dire. 

Her teeth clatter. 

“It’s not my f-fault... I didn’t d-deserve any of this. It’s his fault. E-Everyone is… is… against m-me...” She continues to repeat those very same words, something that continues to echo as a cacophony in her rattled skull.

“Who is Frea?” Her mouth clamps shut at Acadia repeating a question the other Frea has asked her in the mirror, and every molecule in her body is screaming at her. She needs to be ready. Ready for the derision, the mockery, the pain—

“When you are able to answer that question, will the answer you come to be worth it?”

Her chest hurts, heart thumping loudly as she borders on hyperventilating. Acadia’s voice is small and meager, utterly unfitting for a goddess. It’s insignificant enough it could just be the wind, but there’s something… Something that hits Frea like a snare.

A fragile hope.

She needs to wake up. She needs this to be _over._

Her body feels near weightless, and she thinks she could float away if she were able to stand. This is— This is fucking _absurd._ How much further must her mental state spiral into delusions? A fucking goddess? _Here?_ In her mind? She should be hung in the gallows for such blasphemy, at least then she’d be freed from this nonsense.

To think she has a deity like this, _for_ her.

Frea doesn’t have anything, only a growing void in her bones and a life where every waking moment reminds her of her invalidity.

She doesn’t—

She _doesn’t—_

Have—

_a n y t h i n g._

* * *

It feels like her skin is the surface of a boiling stew.

WIth flailing arms Frea throws the blanket off of her, rolling feverishly on the bed— an action that would lead her to fall on the floor again, if it weren’t for the arms that catch her. In the cover of darkness it takes several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the abrupt change from the snowy scenery. Paralyzed by the arms enveloping her, the scent of perturbation invades her bedroom.

The arms tightening around her makes her wince, and catching sight of Aidan’s face makes her sit bolt upright; her nightgown clinging to her skin, wet from perspiration. 

Aidan’s brows are knitted together in apparent concern, and when she moves away from his grasp. A swirl of conflicting emotions hits her all at once. Her sleep addled brain digs deep into the fog that was retreating as her jumbled thoughts became clearer.

She’s in her bed. She’s awake.

The fact makes her heave a sigh of relief, and she rubs her throbbing forehead.

Out of his arms— she ignores her thunderously beating heart— Aidan has his hands free to sign, his look of concern never leaving his expression.

_ <Master, are you alright?> _

She grimaces. “I’m fine.” She says, not sounding very convincing to herself, and evidently not to Aidan either. “Just a dream…” Frea lowers her arm in a subconscious strike to her lap, venting her frustration, “...A nightmare.”

He nibbles on his lip, and outside she can hear the rain hit the window. It’s a heavy downpour, torrential, unforgiving. Trees audibly sway outside and the first crack of lightning rent the air and within seconds the rolling boom of the thunder reverberates overhead. Each time the sky growls loudly, Aidan’s shoulders tense for a second before he relaxes.

Though there’s a strange sort of determination etched on his face now.

_ <Master, let me…> _ His hands freeze, and he tries again. _ <Master, please, I want to make you feel good.> _

She becomes rooted in her own befuddlement when Aidan lifts himself from his knees and comes _on_ the bed with her, his weight making the mattress sink and it momentarily makes her heart stop.

“Wha— What are you—”

She’s rendered speechless when he begins crawling above, soon coming above just above her waist. A tongue darts out from between his lips, something so simple, yet something she spends far _too_ much time focusing on. Her skin tingles at his apparent bravado, belying a growing feeling of desire that bubbles inside of her.

Aidan signs, heavy hands appearing to restrain themselves from just shaking.

_ <I can please you. I’m sorry, I should have done this sooner. The fault lies with me. Please forgive me, Master.> _

She wonders, briefly, what his voice would sound like if he could speak. Would it be cracked? Nervous? Maybe even a little excited? His breathing is fragmented like her own, a silent plea, but Frea cannot stop the growing feeling of _dread_ that begins circling in her gut.

Aidan’s hands snake on her hips, his hands tantalizing soft yet firm.

Something else intermingles with her conflicting feelings and she nearly chokes on her own saliva when she hears the covers of the bed continue to move under Aida’s weight, his touch seeming to sear into her.

When his fingers push her nightgown up she thinks she wants to smile giddily. Maybe even flip them around so he’s beneath her, but while the adrenaline courses through her and voice tells her to take what's hers—

And then she blinks, and she’s back in Utreau.

_A frightened, battered slave hiding in a closet. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, biting into her hand because he perceived her as an imminent threat and feared for his life._

She gasps sharply, blinking furiously and she becomes prone on the bed, unable to move and forced to see these sudden memories.

Aidan, meanwhile, lowers his face, leaning over her crotch, his cheeks flushed into the loveliest shade of crimson she had ever witnessed. His eyes flick from beneath his lashes to look up at her— eyes pleading, beautiful, _submissive—_ before returning his attention back to her lower half.

_A man so afraid he refused to eat until forced. A man so afraid he took several days to even communicate with them. A man who only slept on the floor._

Aidan leans down further, grabbing the edge of the waistband of her underwear with his _teeth._ Slowly, he begins moving back to begin slipping the garment off of her. She can feel herself growing damp, but the feeling is is overwhelmed by— by—

_A sex slave whose skin is a canvas for a deluge of scars. A sex slave who stays despite all that because he has nowhere else to go._

This isn’t how it should be. There’s— something horribly wrong. Everything is wrong, and it takes a physical effort not to be a pathetic whelp and take a sharp intake of breath from feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. Another thought comes to the forefront of her mind that hits her like a freight train.

_And I want to hurt him._

Frea’s face twists, pain across her expression.

She thinks she’s going to be sick. She _is_ sick.

In his eyes she had seen the depths of human suffering. A slave— a _human—_ who had only been hurt by the people in his life and she’s a part of the growing list of the women who have wronged him. She’s no better than his previous Master.

_It’s his fault—_

_Repulsive, hideous, weak—_

She swallows thickly, stopping the bile that climbs up her throat, wanting escape from her mouth. There are nettles that sting her skin and she actually recoils, stopping Aidan before he is able to put his mouth on her. She’s being wrung dry, but twisted still, until the tension becomes too much to bear and she simply snaps, again and again and again and—

She’s doing that to everyone else, too.

She doesn’t— She doesn’t want to be like this. Not anymore. But, no, she _does_ want—

With frantic hands, she shoves Aidan violently. “Get away from me,” she hisses, crawling away from him until her back hits the wall. “Go back to your room,” she says quickly, voice raising.

Green eyes look back at her in bewilderment and fear, and she wonders if her memories of him are starting to seep into reality, he looks _so_ much like how she first met him. His hands move in a desperate motion, and the phantom of both Acadia’s and her twin’s voices ring still as a shackle.

She desperately wants to close her eyes to avoid looking at Aidan, but she doesn’t know what delusions she will be forced to witness behind her eyelids if she does so.

So she throws her pillow at him.

“G-Go back to your room!” She wails, her own voice piercing her ears, “That’s an o-order!”

When the door opens, Frea retreats into the covers of her bedsheets, and she knows Aidan is taken away by a guard, or maybe a servant, from the ensuing scuffle that she hears. She must have woken the house with her scream, but she doesn't have the mental fortitude to think of what it’ll entail. It would be cleansing, to scream again endlessly, to purge herself of these emotions that act as physical weights. To achieve some sort of retribution that she believes she deserves.

But she doesn’t. She becomes silent.

And after some seconds, so does her room.

* * *

As like many passing days, the morning is a blur. People look at her funny, and she knows mother will have some choice words with her when she comes back from whatever she does with the fuckign Cult.

Luckily— unluckily?— Esme comes early, earlier than she’s ever done before, and the two of them sit in the garden with a stifling awkward tension permeating the air. The older woman has a nervous energy about her, tapping the table, bouncing her leg, bringing her teacup to sip it before seemingly deciding against it and putting it down. Her face is tight, and the remnants of the thunderstorm can still be heard. 

The rain is lighter now, but still the pitter patter makes Frea anxious, each little sound making her eye flick around like she’s a cornered animal.

“So,” Esme says stiffly, and Frea stares blankly as she struggles to even remember how she got from her bed to here. “How have you been?”

Distantly, she can hear the birds from Marcus’ aviary and briefly wonders if he’s still in his room. Is Aidan in his room? What’s he doing? Especially after what occurred just hours prior—

What’s she even doing?

She clears her throat, fully aware she must look like she’s sulking with how her body sags, her limbs bearing the appearance of being too heavy for her, like she is personally struggling against far more gravity than everyone else. 

“I’m tired… I didn’t have the best night’s rest.”

Esme nods once, a pained patience forming on her expression. “Of course. Last night’s thunderstorm made it difficult for me to sleep as well.”

“Mhm.”

Then— absolute stillness. There’s still rain falling. There’s still birds chirping. She knows that. And yet, for Frea, no air stirs the grass or leaves. No clouds drift in the sea of blue above. No water drips or flows. Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far off distance. Even her own breath seems to die as soon as it leaves her mouth. 

Everything is beginning to feel far away.

She knows that feeling.

If only to fill in the silence and to distract her from her growing sense of dread, Frea opts to steer the conversation to Esme, her jaw feeling tense the entire time.

“You’re here early.”

On her lap, her fingers twitch and shake. Why does it feel like Esme is about to pounce at her? She has to stop herself from outright growing at the woman, to tell her to get away from her and her toy—

She fists clench, fingernails digging into her palms.

“Yeah,” Esme replies, her lips forming in a frown, “I heard some troubling news.” She leans forward, though doesn’t say anything else, instead sighing through her nose. She opens her mouth for a moment, but closes it, apparently having difficulty forming another sentence.

It makes Frea tense. She, too, doesn’t say anything. Creeping dread crawls up her spine.

“I…” Esme hedges, jaw tightening as she thinks about it again, then continues. “I’ve been made aware of something you’ve said to Lauretta and... please don’t feel as though I’m… I’m interrogating you, or something like that. I mean—”

She runs a hand through her hair, huffing. “Goddammit. I just don’t want to come off like I’m angry at you, alright? Lauretta told me about something you said yesterday and I’m just worried, oay. We both are. Which is why I came early because…”

Her voice tapers off, and Frea at first genuinely doesn’t know if she’s just losing her hearing. It wouldn’t really surprise her at this point, given her delusions. Reality shifts and turns and she blinks in growing bewilderment, and soon Esme’s voice comes back to her mind, and she finds the woman looking back at her with a vague sense of expectation.

“I needed to check up on you. I needed to make sure you’re okay as soon as I was allowed to visit again.”

Her voice almost sounds like Acadia’s, so very despairingly absent of any malice.

She doesn’t know why, but Frea recalls her bedroom. She recalls harsh, severe edges of a room that used to seem so soft and safe. A place she and Marcus used to play in when they were younger. She recalls how it’s now a holding cell, how she struggles to breathe in the dead of night when she is tormented by nightmares; four bleak and uncaring walls closing in, but never actually crushing her despite her feeling the other Frea’s phantom hands on her. What does Marcus think of his younger sister now?

She recalls once sneaking into Nathaniel’s room to get a sneak peek at his paintings when she was barely ten. She remembers him throwing a paintbrush at her. Now, when alone with her thoughts, she wonders if he paints portraits of her because she’s some type of freak of nature because she can’t imagine him viewing her any other way.

Frea remembers her first meeting with Lauretta, a bedraggled medic who endeared her almost embarrassingly quickly. She’s become such a fixture in her life. Why? Why would anyone remain—?

Why… Esme, too…

Because they’re against... no, maybe… That’s not right...

She recalls vignettes of her childhood when mother still apparently gave a damn about her. Each lesson and each failure— Frea could only think _I am not enough_ and so she picked up a camera and ran the first chance she got to enter the military. She was not enough there, either. 

And yet. 

There were moments where she did feel like she was enough.

Moments where she made progress with Aidan and then… _Then—_

Then she lost her legs. Then she lost her control.

Frea’s body is a numb exoskeleton on the precipitate of collapse. Queasiness becomes a tightening embrace around her stomach and her hands shake. The anger, the undiluted fury she had incessantly felt, where is it now?

Words bring her mind to a screeching halt.

“...Frea? Frea, are you alright?” 

The world becomes black, too thick for her to see anything ahead.

It’s a dull realization that hits like a mocking jeer. Something so achingly obvious.

Sometimes the pain crushes her— it leaves her incapable of everything. Everything hurts, especially ever since she fell off her bed. It’s been hurting for weeks now and she’s just ignored it. Gotten _used_ to it. Told herself she’ll be fine and to just get over it. It left her thoroughly broken, in and out. She can’t— She can’t deal with this anymore, and yet the tears don't roll down, and the screams don't escape past her quivering lips. She might have wailed before, but now she settles with having a permanent scowl on her face.

A good follower of Acadia always says they’re fine. You mustn’t be vain. You mustn’t be angry. All fury and pain must be turned back on itself. They’re ugly emotions, not beautiful. And Acadia only likes beauty. Silent, and never threatening to challenge the status quo.

They never mention this during sermons. They never mention anything about keeping your emotions inside and feeling like you’ve lost it when you lash out like a rat in a cage against people who don’t deserve it.

_“Will it be worth it?”_

Guilt and regret, piercing like a blade.

She gets it now. The irony of Acadia showing up in her dreams makes her lips twitch in a mirthless smile. There’s a dampness in her eyes as she stares blankly into the nothingness. Her mouth becomes agonizingly dry within seconds.

And, brightly and unexpected like something thrown to her face, she thinks: _I’m not alright. I haven’t been alright this entire time._

What has become her mantra these weeks? These past _months? Repulsive, hideous, weak—_ There was more wasn’t there? An awful chorus that has been repeating itself incessantly, never truly leaving her. It sends disgusting shivers down her spine. 

Who is Frea?

She doesn’t want her answer to be _that._

Then she thinks back to Aidan, to everyone she's ever wronged, and something inside of her breaks. 

The pain is real, and so is the agony.

“—rea?” She hears in the perpetuating darkness, and she finally has the right answer.

“N-No.”

Frea can feel the muscles of her chin tremble like a small child. Her hand pulls at her hair.

“I-I’m not… okay...” She wants to say more, but her words become hitched and wet breaths as her shoulders heave with emotion. Her dark lashes brim heavy with tears; her hands clenching into shaking fists. The vocal admission hurts more than she ever could have expected.

“Oh— oh shit,” Esme mutters under her breath but Frea can’t see her. The garden is still just a void. Frea’s hands feebly reaches out, yearning for human warmth, but it was useless. She’s alone in this all consuming darkness, like she always is. Surely it’s only a matter of time before the specter of herself returns with her cruel torments.

Except—

She feels it. Hands on her shoulders. The air feels cold between them but Esme is _there._ There’s someone else who’s in this void with her, someone _real._

“Frea, hey, come on,” Esme _pleads,_ “What’s wrong? I— fuck. Just… Just… Do you need me to get you someone?”

She’s able to focus her vision long enough to look up at the older woman. Esme’s eyes are laced with concern, but also filled with a determination that stabs at Frea. There’s something else, too— Fear, frustration, exhaustion…. _Compassion._ No, everyone’s eyes held compassion, and she’s only willing to see it now. The wave of emotion that hits her threatens to overwhelm her, and she chokes on her words.

“I’m s-sorry…” She winces at her own voice, sounding so cracked and defeated. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, and Esme becomes an unfocused haze once more. She feels so shamelessly open, her soul bared, vulnerable. And maybe she _is_ hopelessly weak to be brought to this state.

A lone tear traces down her cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. She weeps, tears streaming from her dark eyes, loud, heaving sobs tearing from her throat as she grabs onto Esme’s shirt for a semblance of reassurance.

“I-I feel like I’m being torn a-apart,” her eyes are burning and her chest feels heavy as if it were filled with lead. She feels as though she’s crumbling in on herself, “It’s… I-It’s like I’m b-being torn at the s-seams…”

Everything stops— just for a moment— when Esme quickly pulls her into a gripping hug.

“That’s okay,” Esme murmurs. She sounds tired yet her tone is delicate, matching her embrace. Her grip never becomes harsh and her voice never raises into something derisive. For a moment Frea wants to push her back and scream that it’s _not_ okay, but the older woman does not give her the chance to. 

“That’s okay. Because we can pick up the pieces.”

At that, something blooms inside of Frea. It makes her feel like something within her comes together again, something she had lost and forgotten. Like a shattered piece of porcelain being put together haphazardly with glue. It can never be the same, but it can return to something recognizable.

Chipped, but repairable.

She’s not in the void anymore. She can see and hear the garden clearly now.

And she understands that all this time she’s always had _something._

Frea sobs into Esme’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the path for healing finally opens up for Frea.
> 
> I would apologize for the lack of sex, but I'm not sorry. :^) I just felt like Frea going all the way with Aidan would have made her step into the realm of doing something unforgivable, and despite what some might think she's meant to be a sympathetic character. So yeah, they're only banging when they get their shit together. And man, am I glad I'm finally done with this part of the story. As much as I enjoy reading and writing angst, I'm fucking tired of it, and I'm sure some of y'all are tired of reading Frea have a mental breakdown for the past 50-60K words, lmao. Not to say there won't be any more angst, there'll still be some of it, but now I can finally write this magical thing called ~comfort~ and ~communication.~ 
> 
> Next chapter should mostly be from Aidan's POV since I think I neglected the poor dude here, especially when Frea had her epiphany, so I'll definitely be giving him more attention about what's going on in his head. Side note, Asnainian arranged marriages is loosely based off miai. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miai
> 
> You know the drill, comment if you like, yada yada. It really helps with my motivation.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re living in quite the melodrama.”

Frea feels herself cringing at mother’s distinctly unimpressed voice. She busies herself with scratching at a frayed strand of fabric in her bedsheets, temporarily avoiding looking at mother as she painstakingly works up the courage to speak with her.

“It was a long day,” she replies flatly. Which really isn't much of a lie or a deflection. It _has_ felt like it’s been at least a week despite it only being hours. Even with the time that has passed, her eyes remain red-rimmed and puffy, making Frea shift uncomfortably in her bed as she resists the urge to scratch at her eyes.

“You wept.” Mother states a matter of factly, no inflection in her voice and that makes her skin crawl.

Frea responds with bitter reluctance. “Are you going to slap me again?”

As is often the case whenever she’s stupid enough to bite back at her mother of all people, whatever bravado she has evaporates almost immediately. The moment she hears a step approaching her she has to stop herself from trying to hide away from beneath her bedsheets like the child mother says she is. There’s a dip in the mattress, and Frea glances at mother’s lap, though her gaze does not reach the woman’s face.

“I’ve been thinking,” mother says, “That perhaps Winthrope and the Utritian are actively impeding your recovery.”

Now that forces Frea to look at mother directly, though she quickly averts her gaze when their eyes meet for a split-second. “What… What do you mean?”

“You _wept,”_ mother repeats, as if it’s the most obvious answer to her question. “It is unhelpful to be… constantly be stressed.”

Frea doesn’t miss the slight air of disappointment that comes from the word _stressed._

“And the Utritian, well, he is an Utritian. I believe I have extended far too much kindness to the whelp as is. He is not Acadia’s child, and as such I see no reason to allow him to continue staying here. It would be more productive to hand him to the Inquisition.”

Unknowingly, Frea hands begin to quiver. An icy chill crawls over her, and she mumbles an incomprehensible reply, mostly something that is muscle memory at this point. She wouldn’t dare try to talk back once mother has an idea, it’s not like she can do anything to stop her. Mother is an unstoppable gale, and if Frea even so much as tried she would risk getting pushed back somewhere she can’t return from.

But the dread… is new. It’s like a slow approaching train. Just like in her nightmares, no matter she runs, there will be a point where she can only wait to be destroyed, wait to be nothing more than blood and bone fragments. There is no avoiding it because mother is the conductor of this horrid train—

Her jaw clenches, feeling as though she’s going to pop a vein.

And then what? She reverts to her original state because she loses what she had _just_ realized she had all this time? It’s not enough that she torments herself in her mind, oh no, she has to have this fucking stupid train in her head too.

After everything—she can’t. She _won’t._

In this frozen state her mind offers her only one thought, and the words come quickly tumbling out.

“If you— If you send them away, if you prevent them from ever coming here again I’ll do everything I can to never give you an heir. Even if you m-manage to put a child inside me I’ll beat my stomach, I’ll throw myself down the stairs, I’ll—”

A hand gripping her chin suddenly forces her words to come to a halt. Mother’s eyes are as immobile as the rest of her face, and now Frea finds she can’t avert her eyes, despite desperately wanting to.

“Is that right?”

Frea’s eye twitches, and she knows: She won’t be able to fight with mother. She will be put into a corner she cannot come out of, and it will only prolong the inevitable. She has no answer to her question.

And, a voice rings brightly in her head, and for once in a very long time, it isn’t her own voice that mocks her. Instead, it’s something soft.

_“That’s okay. Because we can pick up the pieces.”_ She can remember Esme’s statement well, like it’s been embedded in her mind and thoughts. She had hugged Frea until she was basically escorted away by the guards. She had come in the first place because she was worried.

And Frea thinks there’s… something in that. Something she’s not willing to lose. She reminds herself that she won’t. She won’t revert to where she was after everything, even if her stomach churns with every second she’s forced to look mother in the eyes. Something simmers in her gut, her intestines twist, her mother quiet and distant. Suddenly she feels as though she’s being stripped bare, until there is only a bloody red—

“I saw Acadia in a dream,” she blurts out, mind whirling around, desperately grabbing onto something she hopes can come to her defense, if only to change the subject. Mother is a fanatic, so surely…?

The grip on her chin lessens, and that gives her the motivation to continue.

“S-So… I want to go to the cathedral. I think— I think she wants me to pray…”

She manages to prevent her voice from sounding wobbly, but the stuttering makes her want to grimace. Soon, mother lets her go, leaning back and looking at her with a long, piercing gaze that makes Frea begin to perspire. She wants to look away, had been this entire time, but something keeps her eyes still. It’s a potent persistence she’s unused to, making her body feel strange.

Then— the left side of mother’s lip tugs upwards creating the barest hint of a smirk. It makes Frea shiver and blink, lips parting in pure bewilderment.

“My.” Mother says, “So this is the tactic you will resort to in order to keep the whore as your bedmate. Interesting.”

Too flabbergasted to speak, Frea splutters incomprehensibly. The word _whore_ echoes in her ears, making her muscles feel so brittle in their tension she thinks she might shatter.

Mother must sense this, so she speaks again, the cool detachment in her eyes never leaving her.

“Do not think I am unaware of what happens in my own home, Frea.”

She stands, taking a leisurely stroll to the door as if she didn’t just say something that just about gave Frea a fucking heart attack. It takes Frea all of her concentration and will not to hyperventilate in her bed, her hands grabbing fistfulls of her sheets with a white knuckle grip. Her mind becomes muddled and confused, unable to focus on a singular thought, but the realization of everything makes her feel hopelessly dizzy.

Mother leaves her with a final statement.

“We’ll leave for the cathedral shortly. I must say, there’s a fire in your eyes now. It’s quite refreshing.”

Her stomach continues to churn, and Frea finds that mother’s… _smile_ reminds her of oil.

* * *

Aidan is at a loss.

He paces in his room like an impatient dog, his mind replaying the memory of him _trying_ to please Master and failing miserably. She had people drag him out. His lips quiver without him realizing it, his hands restlessly clenching and unclenching, and soon he finds himself making Cat’s Cradle with a boot lace over and over again. 

What does Master want? How is it that he keeps failing her? What can he do to be better? He’s _trying—_ more so than he ever has in his life. He wants to be good for her and yet everything keeps going wrong. He feels as though he’s hitting bars of an invisible cage, unable to break free and constantly stuck where he is. Has he gone _anywhere_ with Master? Her soft hands and thighs come to the forefront of his thoughts, but only for a moment before he is reminded of him being roughly escorted to his room.

He doesn’t know what she wants. It wasn’t sex, apparently.

He’s such a bad slave. He’s been so bad this entire time, hopelessly selfish and desiring things that he doesn’t deserve. Did this happen because he slept on the bed? Because he’s engaging with her brothers in a manner unbefitting him? Does she know of all of the things he does when he hasn’t been given permission?

Of course she does. She’s Master. And _any_ Master knows everything.

It’s a horrible, seemingly infinite pattern that puts mountains upon mountains of pressure that threatens to rip the pit of his stomach, to rip open the disgusting truth.

He worries about things. He desires things he shouldn’t. He tries to obtain those very things, to exploit someone’s ignorance and act like someone he isn’t. Then the reality of the situation comes crashing down. Then he worries about things.

He’s going in _circles._ Everything repeats itself and he’s—

Aidan’s tired of it. He keeps telling himself he wants to be good, and that he _is_ being good, and yet he always returns to where he started. It was a mistake to do the things he’s been doing, something that makes a feeling fester in his gut and he scrunches the boot laces in his trembling hands. Stupid.

Master must have known all the sins he’s been committing, and now she’s giving him the most bewildering punishment he’s ever experienced— and it’s also the worst. The uncertainty of it all that makes his mind feel like muddled, murky waters, never knowing where he stands, if he’s on steady ground or about to sink beneath the surface… it really is the worst. He hates it. 

A future full of uncertainty and doubt. How can he just be what Master wants already? He’s trying, trying, trying—

“You’re gonna pop a blood vessel like that.”

Aidan blinks, shoulders instinctively tensing before sagging when he sees Nathaniel in the doorway. The man tilts his head, eyes glinting with curiosity, and Aidan realizes he’s been clenching his fists together so tightly he’s beginning to hurt his palms. He loosens the grip, the boot lace falling from between his hands and hitting to the ground.

Nathaniel nonchalantly walks in the room, closing the door and setting some art supplies on the floor. “I didn’t really mean your hands, just,” he vaguely gestures towards Aidan’s entire body, “everything, I guess. I don’t actually know if you’d pop a blood vessel like that, but I’ve read books where it says the character is going to pop something when they’re all tense and stuff.”

Furrowing his brows together, Aidan feels his fingers begin to grow restless once more, and he’s wrought with the desire of pacing back and forth in the room again. 

But he doesn’t do that.

“Hey, c’mon, sit with me.”

Suddenly feeling weightless, he unceremoniously sits on the floor with a thud, making Nathaniel give him a funny look.

“You good?” He asks, opening the sketchbooks and setting the pencils to the side, setting them up so they make up a colourful gradient— something Nathaniel is a bit particular of keeping in order. If Aidan ever uses a pencil and puts it somewhere that isn’t its original spot Nathaniel always makes his distaste known with an annoyed huff.

Aidan frowns. He shouldn’t be thinking of art or whatever he does with Nathaniel. He shouldn’t be here in the first place, these little sessions are something he’s been indulging in far too long and it’s angered Master. Probably. He should forget about these things but then what would he do? He doesn’t know. He never knows and that eats at him.

_ <I failed Master.> _He signs, the admission somewhat freeing to a degree. 

Nathaniel cocks a brow. “Mast— Oh, you mean Frey-Frey.” At that, Aidan nods lamely. “She’s such a deadbeat now.”

His frown deepens at the word choice, unsure of what deadbeat means but it can’t be anything good. No, whatever it is, he cannot allow Master’s brother think something is amiss with her. Maybe— Maybe the first step of finally being the slave he’s meant to be is letting him know he’s true status.

_ <She’s not. It’s my fault,> _ For reasons frustratingly unbeknownst to him he avoids using the word slave. He _should,_ he must, but he doesn’t. His quaking hands won’t let him. _ <I should go to her.> _

Nathaniel matches his frown with one of his own. “Well, the guard outside your room probably won’t let you.”

Aidan drops his hands to his lap, not missing the sound that comes out of his throat that would be a whine, but instead it’s a garbled string of noises. _ <I failed her. I want to be good for her but I don’t know what she wants.> _

“Huh,” is all he replies with before flipping through the book of sign language, seemingly needing to confirm what Aidan just said. Nathaniel’s eyes widen slightly and he rubs his neck in an almost sheepish manner. “So, uh, you in love with her or something?”

Mortification registers on Aidan’s face, and for the first fraction of a second he’s unable to understand his prodding question. All thoughts of his incompetence erases from his mind and he gawps at Master’s brother, his heart threatening to crawl up his throat. He knows this sensation— _fear._ Everything about this is wrong, a mistake needing to be rectified lest he want to be punished.

_Love…_ How unnatural. Abnormal. Outrageous. He shouldn't even allow himself to daydream about the prospect.

He shakes his head fitfully. _ <No.> _He quickly signs, repeating the phrase for good measure. 

Nathaniel shifts where he sits, his expression morphing into a smile that borders on incredulous. “Uh huh. Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t know what Frey-Frey wants either.” He snorts, “I don’t think anyone does. She’s been acting weird.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better, if anything it makes him feel significantly worse. He’s the only one who can fix this— he… thinks…?— he fucked it up, he has to fix it. He’s the only one that’s _meant_ to be with her and make her feel good. 

But how… that continues to make him wish he could scream.

In the midst of his growing frustrations, Nathaniel leans forward. “I read in a book that men are either doormats or princes.” His smile grows into a knowing smirk as he lowers his voice to a whisper, “I don’t like being a doormat. It’s why I sneak out. The city is quieter then, and I know _all_ the secret passageways, hehe. And I can look for things to paint! No one can tell me what to do when it's night. I don’t have to deal with Frey-Frey and Marcus hating me, too.”

Aidan responds by scrunching his face together, feeling the immediate need to defend Master but to also tell Nathaniel that his siblings don’t hate him— even though he’s not really sure why he would want to comfort him in such a way. 

—He knows why, of course. But it’s something he refuses to acknowledge—

As more conflict stirs in his head, Nathaniel continues.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I don’t like knowing, _but_ I think I don’t like you being a doormat even more. How about tomorrow we… go sneak out? See the city. Have you seen the city? I’ll show you around.” His voice becomes twinged with more excitement the more he speaks, “I know every corner and building. It’ll be fun.”

Aidan purses his lips together tightly, his mind becoming charging horses pulling in opposite directions as he attempts to make sense of his situation. Before he’s able to sign anything, he’s interrupted.

“Aha, I know what you’re going to say. Something about Frey-Frey giving you permission? See, that’s what I mean about being a doormat. Who _cares_ what she thinks? Just sneak out and see the city, like me! Princes do what they want, hehe.”

_Doormat, slave, doormat, slave_

_Prin—_

_Doormateslavedoormateslave—_

It was a mistake to try to exploit this man’s ignorance. It was a mistake to start drawing. It was a mistake to enjoy this momentary delusion of pretending to be anyone’s equal. Look where it got him— hopelessly at a loss at what he’s meant to do. He’s aimless. He needs structure, in the form of a stern hand that tells him exactly what his worth is.

_And yet…_

He can’t bring his hands to sign. He just _can’t._ His arms refuse to move how he wants it, not allowing him to sign that he’s a fucking slave, his body rebelling from revealing the ugly truth. Gritting his teeth, he summons all his energy to claw at his sleeve and pull it down, revealing the scars that crisscross on his arm. This— _this_ will show Nathaniel of his true nature. Doormat, slave, they’re both the same, as only they would have the scars he does. He will finally get his point across, whether his body wants to or not.

He hears Nathaniel’s breath hitch, and Aidan stares at his own arm, reminding himself to never be so selfish again.

He ignores the growing stabbing pain in his gut, he ignores the anticipation and excitement he had felt whenever he had his little drawing lessons, he ignores how surely he will never be granted such a privilege ever again. He ignores the eagerness he had felt when he indulged in Nathaniel’s ignorance. He knows he cannot have everything, or much in the first place, and desperately tries to remind himself of his place again and again. 

Aidan knows how he will likely find himself with a tight and heavy chest tonight.

Nathaniel’s voice is a faint whisper. “Did Frey-Frey…?”

Not that it would matter if she were the one that gave him these scars, but Aidan shakes his head regardless. When he lifts his head to look at the man, the relief Nathaniel apparently feels is palpable. His shoulders slacken, and he blows a breath.

“Oh, okay. That’s good.” He says softly, “Those look rough.”

Aidan blinks. Then he blinks again, waiting for Nathaniel to do… anything else. There should be disgust, or _something._ His deception has been revealed, but nothing happens. He sits there for a while longer in silence before Nathaniel breaks it, a sad and forced smile forming on his cheeks.

“...Okay, so, let’s draw something. I read in a book that art can heal pain. So let’s heal those scars.”

What the hell?

His mouth becomes pursed but slightly open and loose. Aidan blinks, refocuses. Nathaniel should know. His scars should have proved it. And yet he still wishes to show him how to draw? What? _What?_ Just when he thought he’s experienced the highest level of insanity and confusion these people can offer, only to feel the most bewildered he’s _ever_ felt.

“I don’t think I’ve shown you how to draw people yet.” Nathaniel taps his chin with his pencil. “And I _guess_ if you really wanna do something for Frey-Frey you can draw her portrait.” His voice tapers off into a small mutter, “And we can go to the city later, too.”

He knows, doesn’t he? There’s no way he doesn’t after seeing those scars. But even then… nothing fucking changes?!

For a fraction of a second the corners of Aidan's mouth twitch upwards, until his conscious mind asserts control again. Dangerous thoughts swirl in his mind again, just like when he first began drawing with Nathaniel. Indulge in his selfish desires. He’s… allowed to do this, even as a slave? Just what is up with these people?

Try as he might to reason with it, try as he might to tell himself off, try as he might to assure himself it’s the right thing to do is to stop this budding relationship—

He stops denying himself of what he wants. His lips quiver again, eyes wet, but he stops himself from getting too emotional.

Aidan manages to move his hands, his desperation growing. _ <Why?> _

His meaning is apparently obvious enough for Nathaniel, who pinches his brows together.

“Because you’re my friend, duh.”

It takes every ounce of Aidan’s control to not just burst into tears then and there. Surely nothing about this makes sense, but there’s no voice in his head that tells him otherwise. No mockery, no derision, no insults. It is simply him and Nathaniel in a quiet room and… Maybe he’s not really in an invisible cage anymore.

And he thinks, maybe, he feels safe around Nathaniel, too. He… would like to keep it that way.

He cannot go back to Master as of yet, but he can use this portrait learning as a distraction for now. He can be selfish, Nathaniel has granted him such a miracle.

His chest is tight and heavy, and remains so for the rest of evening— a cloud hanging over him for his continued failures.

But he can be selfish. He can do… _some_ of the things he wants.

And after everything that's happened, he’s going to take that without further complaint.

* * *

The City of Art, The Crown of the North, The Winter Wonderland, The City of Acadian Blessings — these are but a few names heralded by poets and artists alike for Lullin. With a great deal of Asnainians being so devoted to poetry, music, or really any other art form, it is only natural that they are drawn to the city like moths to a flame. Many of Asnain’s greatest conductors, poets, painters— you name it— hail from Lullin.

Southwest is a smaller town named Torrine. Its claim to fame is that it is Asnain's biggest manufacturer of perfumes, scented candles, glass sculptures and silks. Every year's products are split, with a portion being sold locally within Lullin, the rest is sold off via trade routes within the country, and then further out internationally. So with these extra trinkets being consistently provided to Lullin gives it another reputation— _romance._ Torrine’s products are very often the perfect gifts for a woman to give her beau. 

That’s not even taking into account the damn city has narrow arms of sparkling water that carves the city into three parts— placid lakes where people can ride gondolas in, or when it gets deep into winter, can ice skate on. So, with all this pizazz, this art, this romance, this grace and beauty… one would think it’s perfect. 

But it isn’t.

Riding down the hill from where her home is perched on, Frea and mother enter the city proper. She can already smell the fragrances, something sweet and floral. There are streets of up-market stores, smooth black and pale blue and glass exteriors, fancy names in fancier lettering. The kind of places with perfumed atmospheres made all the more inviting by music and well groomed obsequious commoner staff. Each wide avenue is draped in the seasonal reds and golds.

The carriage windows are tinted so none of the few bystanders and pedestrians can see inside, but Frea can take a peek outside. Lullin is quieter than she’s used to, but she also sees… more guards than what she expects. And then she sees the _imperfections._

Plastered on some residence’s windows are posters, most of which are advocating for the same thing with big, bold letters: _“LET MEN WORK.”_ Some are more specific, tacking on a _“OUTSIDE OF DOMESTIC SERVICE”_ in the end. There are some urging to allow men in more academic focused schools, instead of ones that just focus on etiquette like the academy in Epcarres. 

And there are some that are more… extreme, Frea supposes. 

Some that call for the dissolution of the nobility.

Those don’t seem to last long, however, since the moment she sees one of those signs a cloaked figure skulks towards the home, and with one smooth motion throws a rock through the window. The glass shatters in an instant, destroying the poster with it. The figure runs away and Frea cranes her neck to look back at the scene as the carriage goes past it and she notices the area is suspiciously absent of any guards.

Flicking her questioning gaze at mother, she finds no reaction. Mother looks out the window, her chin propped up by her hand as she looks borderline nonchalant. Frea becomes very much aware of why mother is gone most days.

Frea doesn’t dare mention it. She remains silent as the carriage continues on, turning several corners, soon stopping somewhere that leads into an alleyway— really, it’s more of a passageway— it’s dark and unfriendly, with scarcely placed lamps. Something that’s entirely intentional. She knows these are silent corridors used by the Cult and seldom anyone else. It doesn’t take long for them to reach their destination, what with mother being disturbingly efficient in sneaking around even with someone bound to a wheelchair.

It reminds her of the fact that mother knows a great deal more than she lets on which, well, should be obvious enough because it’s _mother._ But for her to know of Aidan’s near nightly excursions to her room— evidently she or whoever else under her command hasn’t gone as far as to actually look _inside_ her room seeing how she called him a whore. Still, the whole thing is… very uncomfortable and she would rather not think about it, lest she want to get lost in a deep pit as she begins to wonder about whether mother is just bullshitting her and doesn’t actually know of Aidan’s coming to her and she’s just saying that to… ugh.

She shakes herself from her thoughts, opting to look at the looming cathedral before her. The pale blue structure seems to kiss the sky, all old stone and stained glass. It’s both grand and beautiful, though the howling of the occasional gust of wind makes it feel slightly ominous, and the moonlight casts an eerie glow.

Though the most sobering sight is the field of Mourner’s Blooms— bright blue poppies that only grow in the frigid mountains of the north. The flower’s tenacity in the cold environment makes it a popular choice to leave at graves and to symbolize grief. There are countless bouquets strewn across the courtyard, and among them are a sea of framed portraits of women who seem close to her own age.

How could a place be so full and empty at the same time? Mother and Frea are the only individuals around, and yet she doesn’t think she’s ever felt more claustrophobic. Her throat constricts and she rubs it, a heavy feeling forming in her gut as she remembers how starry-eyed she was with her camera when stepping off that train. It feels like it’s been years since that moment.

The gaze from the portraits almost feel accusatory, making her heart begin to palpitate, though it quickly subsides as she’s rolled into one of the cathedral’s back entrances which isn’t accessible by the general public. 

Like outside, the church is absent of any people, leading Frea to believe that mother has gone through extensive efforts to ensure she won’t actually be seen by anyone. The thought makes her self-consciously run her hand over one of her birthmarks, and she wonders when the last time she covered these up were.

Letting out a slow, controlled breath, she’s seemingly left to her own devices. Mother leans on the wall with her arms crossed, watching her with a judicial eye. Frea resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably in her seat, and she moves across the main floor, the squeaks of her chair’s wheels being the only sounds that echoes in the halls. With the altars she sees multiple offerings of peaches and milk, interspersed with other offerings of various flowers, apples and paintings.

Even with her bout of bravado she has with mother, she is entirely unsure of what to do now. 

Frea furrows her brows.

Should she pray at the largest altar? That’s technically what she came for, but she just… feels like she doesn’t know how to anymore. She doesn’t actually think she saw Acadia in her dream. Honestly, she’s unsure if she believes anything regarding her faith anymore, or whether she _actually_ believed in it in the first place. It was just something expected. She didn’t know anything else.

Kind of like how her giving mother an heir is just expected. Or just having children in general.

_Birth is the greatest artform of them all._

She smiles mirthlessly, now in front of the main altars. She clasps her hands together in front of her chest, a familiar motion that… feels comforting in its own way. Something soft. Something almost akin to a hug. Or maybe she’s just imagining things again.

Frea closes her eyes, a tension in her body she didn’t know she had beginning to slowly lessen.

_I… confess…_

Her smile becomes a genuine one, not able to stop herself from hiding the whole situation just a little bit funny.

_I’ve sunken into a pit. I’m afraid of… myself. I’m afraid of what happens inside my head._

Her smile falls fairly quickly from the admission, and she decides it can’t help to… ask.

_How can this lost follower return to you? Please show me how to get out of this pit I’ve dug for myself._

She bites her lip.

_Please heal my mind of these torments. I don’t want to be like Iovanna anymore._

Opening her eyes, she stares idly at the altar as her self-deprecating smile returns. Asking for her mind to be _healed_ is probably too much of an ask, even for a goddess. She doesn’t understand her mind, and she doubts she ever will. Hell, seems like the entirety of Asnain doesn’t know anything about those types of things. The thought of her tortuous twin appearing in her nightmares again petrifies her. 

The fear sits on her like a pillow over her mouth and nose. Enough air gets by it, allowing her body to keep functioning, but it's crippling all the same.

How can she stop herself from outright suffocating? Surely her mind won’t concoct another image of Acadia urging her to stop everything a second time. Frea thinks, and thinks, and thinks, now trying to find salvation in her thoughts— something that had been her worst enemy for the past month and a half.

She attempts to remember any proverbs or teachings. Any words of wisdom that can… lead her somewhere.

_“If your guilt tears at your heart, rips at your insides, you are already forgiven. Come sit and belong.”_

The words of a past sermon come to the forefront of her mind. She thinks the context for this one was a story about a woman who accidentally killed her brother in a swordfight— the brother had pretended to be a woman in hopes of joining a knighthood and his sister was unaware of his identity until after his death. Something about the moral of the tale being that men should stay where they belong.

There’s an awful lot of those. As well as an awful lot of murder in these tall tales, something that makes Frea chuckle softly.

The guilt has been tearing at her for some time now, but…

_Forgiven._

That gives her pause. She narrows her eyes slightly, staring ahead at the fresco and ecclesial paintings in front of her. At that moment, a dull ache in her legs can be felt, as if signifying her realization.

Unlike what the tale posited, she knows she won’t be forgiven just because she happens to feel sorry for herself.

_Yes…_ She thinks to herself, _Some apologies are in order._

It’s a thought that makes her throat feel dry. Had she ever truly apologized for something in her life? The mere realization is enough to make her heart beat slightly faster in growing nervousness.

But she knows that it’s something she needs to do. Something that’s been _long_ overdue.

Frea leans back in her chair, closing her eyes again while heaving a long, soft sigh. It’s… freeing, in a way. A weight seems to have been lifted off of her, though there is still a heaviness that needs to be taken away. Still, for the first time in a very, very, _very_ long while she feels… she might actually belong somewhere for once.

When she looks at one of the massive windows, she sees into her reflection, she sees herself as a messy paintwork of colours, a fragmented reflection seeking to reform into something new, hopefully something better.

Perhaps there are some merits to cathedrals, if only to give her a quiet place to think and reflect. It feels like a salve to her mind, and she becomes renewed with a new feeling of purpose.

* * *

Lauretta claps her hands together in front of her face, her expression scrunched together in an almost comical fashion.

“Please forgive me!! I didn’t know what to do when you said that, so I just ran off and tattled to Esme!” She opens one of her eyes and resumes her groveling, her voice just as exaggerated as her face, “I ain’t no good with conflict, it’s why I became a medic!”

Beside her, Esme actually chuckles, and Frea joins in while drinking her hot chocolate. The warmth settles in nicely in her stomach as Lauretta breaks the awkward tension that had befallen the three women when they first sat down.

She’s a lot more observant than she gives her credit for, Frea will admit that much.

She had specifically sent Saskia to fetch them, and despite having about an hour to prepare some type of script for her grand apology, it’s significantly harder to get any words out than she initially thought. And it doesn’t help that she can read Lauretta’s guarded body language, despite her humorous performance.

Though that doesn’t exactly stop Frea from feeling the shimmers of guilt still remain within her. The thoughts that swirl inside her head, the ones of her wishing ill-will upon these women and blaming them for the most ridiculous of things… is nauseating.

She looks down at her glass, imbibing further in the hot chocolate that provides a small comfort.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Frea murmurs softly, “I said something that put you into an awkward position. I don’t blame you for leaving.” She has to clear her throat for the next part, “Sorry.”

It’s not the apology she had envisioned, and she knows she will need to try again.

Though before she can, Lauretta seemingly has more desire to continue dispelling any awkwardness with a casual comment.

“You sound like shit.”

It actually makes Frea guffaw, a sudden burst of bewilderment that comes out in a laugh. “Yes, I feel like it, too.” A smile forms on her lips when Esme flicks her finger on Lauretta’s forehead, who promptly reels back as if she had been shot.

Esme looks back at Frea, brows creasing in a look of concern, “Have you been getting enough sleep? You look exhausted.”

Probably because she _is_ exhausted. Perhaps it’s the presence of these two that makes her feel a sudden surge of emotion, but her jaw trembles and—

She begins the long, laborious process of relaying everything to them. Her thoughts, her feelings, her nightmares, her unfounded assumptions. Just… _everything._ Is what she feels something freeing? She doesn’t know, but she does know the verbal confession allows a feeling of wholeness to emerge from within her. Even the thought of mother listening in on them is not enough to stop her from relaying her dysfunctional family life to the two of them.

Though she leaves out mother’s desire for an heir, and Aidan trying… _that._

By the time she’s finished, she’s drunk all of her hot chocolate. For a moment she can’t quite bring herself to actually look at Lauretta and Esme, but when she hesitantly brings her gaze to Esme she sees the older woman’s stern expression, her arms folded in front of her, Frea’s stomach begins to twist in knots.

But there is no anger in her face, or even pity. Just… understanding.

“The nightmares do not stop,” Esme states curtly, making Frea have a sharp intake of air. “They will never go away.”

Frea looks down on her hands, realizing they’re beginning to become clammy. Despite herself, she can only think _ah, Esme must have nightmares too._ A realization that, while painfully obvious, pierces through her. She hadn’t even considered other people’s personal demons, something else she needs to work on.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, and Esme’s voice softens.

“But they will lessen with time. They can become manageable. You _will_ be able to overcome them, in a sense.”

Her own shame slowly curls around her, “But… but what about these… visions? Delusions? These voices— they’re all so real.”

“A resuming byproduct of your trauma. The best thing you can do is not pretend to be immune to them.” Her hand tightens reassuringly around Frea’s shoulder, and the atmosphere gradually becomes lighter when the older woman’s lips tug slightly upwards. 

“And another thing that can help is following your doctor’s orders,” she nonchalantly smacks Lauretta’s shoulder, “Take your medication and all that. The more your body heals, the easier all this will become.”

Being addressed makes Lauretta jump slightly, “Oh. Right. Yes.” She says quickly, fumbling in her pocket to take out a small bottle of pills, “Now, disclaimer ‘n all that. These aren’t fullproof. Like, it might take a while for them to take effect, so don’t expect your hurt to magically disappear immediately, alright? That’s just settin’ yourself up for failure.”

At Esme clearing her throat, she stutters out another comment.

“B-But! It’s better than doin’ nothin’! We gotta see what works and what doesn’t!”

Frea responds with a soft smile, and she takes a pill. Something that she had feared and held absurd notions over now seemed so small and insignificant in the palm of her hand. Is she weak to take this? Perhaps. But perhaps there’s nothing wrong with needing the extra help.

She swallows it along with some water, and now she supposes only time will tell if it will alleviate some of the ache that persists in her stumps.

Lauretta leans back in her seat, scratching her cheek with a lopsided smile. “Man, all this… stuff... Shit’s way above my paygrade. Er, no offense.”

It’s a comment that makes Frea sit up straighter, perhaps it’s the medication, or perhaps it was their words of comfort but she feels renewed motivation to get what she wanted to say properly out of her.

“Lauretta, Esme. I…” Her face becomes one of concentration, “I really should apologize to you two. Some— um, most of my actions were inexcusable. Trauma or no trauma, you did not deserve the strife I put you two through. I’m sorry.”’

She hopes it sounds genuine, because it _is._ Literally the worst thing that can happen is for them to think she doesn’t believe in her own apology, a thought that worms into her mind that begins to make her hands feel fidgety and restless. After seeing Esme adopt her steely gaze again, she feels the need to add more.

“If you— If you feel as though you do not want to be around me anymore I won’t blame you. Please do not feel obligated to remain here—”

“Lemme tell you a lil’ secret,” Lauretta interrupts, her voice and expression uncharastically serious, “I didn’t stay here ‘cause I happened to land an apprenticeship, or ‘cause your mamaw is payin’ for my long ass hotel stay. I stayed ‘cause I wanna see this through to the end. I wanna see you walk again and I’m gonna make damn sure it’s gonna happen.”

Before Frea can even think of formulating a response, Lauretta waggles an admonishing finger at her. “So enough with all this, alright?” Her freckled cheeks become dimpled with a smile, “I accept your apology. It’s water off a duck’s back. But if I see you actin’ all territorial again I’m gonna put you in the pound like the rest of the dogs.”

Frea laughs lightly again, moreso in an attempt to dispel her nervous energy than anything else, and the relief she begins to feel is palpable. Jokes are good. Jokes make her feel calmer.

“I thought you didn’t like conflict.”

“Yeah, well, I make exceptions.”

“I second the sentiment,” Esme says, her own smile forming, “Well, perhaps without the pound part. And on the notion of being… territorial, I believe we need to address the elephant in the room.” Her eyes specifically pierce through Frea, who begins to feel a sensation that is not unlike bugs crawling just beneath her skin. She has to pinch herself to keep herself steady, ignoring the invasive belief that everyone is against her again.

A voice that will likely never cease to plague her but… _They will lessen with time,_ she reminds herself.

She’s stronger than demons in her head. She has to remind herself of that, too.

“I… think it might be for the best that I don’t see him for a while. I’m afraid I might do something I regret if I see him again so soon.”

From the periphery of her vision, she sees Lauretta frown. 

“But… you guys live in the same house. Kinda hard to keep separated like that, y’know.”

Frea swallows, opening her mouth before closing it. “It doesn’t need to be long. A few days at best. I just…” She sighs, “I just need to sort myself out for a bit.”

Esme takes the moment to interject, “I’m sure that can be arranged, and to be blunt, I agree that you two need to take some time apart. Your relationship with him…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, though the sentiment is _very_ clear, “I’ll need to speak with him myself. I’m sure he’s confused about everything. He still has a mindset of a slave which is… unfortunate.”

A mindset that she no doubt had a hand in reinforcing. More shame coils within her, but also— motivation. Motivation to make things right.

“You should go speak with him now.” Frea blurts out, surprising even herself to such a degree she wonders if she actually imagined it. Evidently her sudden urging surprises Esme as well, since her brows hit her hairline for a second before a small and disbelieving grin etches its way onto her face.

“Yeah, I’ll go talk to him in a bit, but before that I have to know, when you were translating documents in Utreau… Did you ever come across papers regarding Aidan? His…” She purses her lips together like she’s just eaten a particularly sour citrus, “Papers regarding him being sold, or anything like that?”

“I— No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

Esme shrugs, “Would be nice to have any documentation on him. He’s technically being housed illegally here and without any papers he doesn’t exist in the eyes of the Asnainian government.” her expression hardens, “It would be nice to get him citizenship or anything that can help him be protected by the law, but without any papers… and with him being a slave on top of being an Utritian… Is going to make that a pain in the ass if not just straight up impossible.”

Lauretta clicks her tongue, “Dang, I didn’t even think about that.”

And neither did Frea. It is a sentiment that had been so foreign to her that she has to stop herself from becoming slack-jawed.

“Isn’t he technically a refugee?” Frea asks.

Esme smiles wryly.

“He hasn’t gone through any of the processes that would allow him that status, so again, he’s the illegal kind. I was hoping to get him becoming refugee or citizen or _anything_ started if he had any papers but it was stupid of me to think that even if he did have documentation that we would still have it at this point.” She rubs her forehead as she stands, “I’ll figure something out. For now, I’ll go check on the kid.”

She moves towards the door, but just before she touches the doorknob, Esme stops mid-movement. She turns, glancing between Lauretta and Frea, looking as though she wants to say something, but instead she says her goodbyes.

“...I’ll see you two later.” She nods at Frea, “Take care of yourself. If you ever need something, you can always get me. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, just get someone to come get me.”

With her departure, there is a resounding silence that returns to being awkward. Not that it surprises Frea in the slightest, considering the mess the last month has been. Being the moodmaker she is, Lauretta is the first one to speak.

“Y’know, they’re buildin’ this big ol’ railway throughout Asnain. Wanna get some tourism after the war and all that. Think they’re callin’ it the transcontinental railway or somethin’ like that.” She waggles her brows, “We should give it a ride sometime. I think you ought to be goin’ out more. Shucks, whenever I’m at the hotel I think I’m gettin’ cabin fever ‘cause I need to be outside!”

She leans in, “But first things first, we gotta get your independence back. Once you’re walkin’ you’ll be right as rain, I reckon.” She gives Frea a knowing wink.

Frea merely nods as a reply. _Independence,_ something so simple, something that had become such a foreign concept. At the thought a new emotion slowly becomes injected into her veins, _excitement._ It’s small, tiny really, but it’s there nonetheless.

“I haven’t seen you smoke in some time,” Frea comments idly.

“Hah! Well, yeah, I mostly take a cig when I’m mullin’ outside my hotel since I’m pretty sure the servants here would tear me apart if I smoked here, heh. Plus, I am thinkin’ of quittin’. Everythin’ has got me thinkin’ and I’ve decided I wanna live for just a smidgen longer.”

“Didn’t you mention something about the first smoke feeling like it was unifying for your soul? And that your brother hates? I’m sure he’ll be pleased with this development.”

Lauretta guffaws, a familiar sound that Frea realizes she had actually missed.

“Ah shit I didn’t think you’d remember that. Hell, I don’t even remember sayin’ that.” Lauretta’s glance at the desk beside Frea’s bed, quirking a brow. “Speakin’ of old habits, why don’tcha go back to takin’ pictures? This thing was attached to your hip in Utreau.”

She appraises every inch of the camera, eying it up and down as she fiddles with it in her hands. After doing so, she hands it towards Frea, who promptly stares at it like it’s going to kill her. When she takes it, she half expects to drop it as if it burned her, too. But she doesn’t. Instead, she feels a mix of nostalgia and anxiety.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever truly enjoyed photography,” she says sullenly, “It was escapism, and then it was a cruel reminder of everything. I… I don’t know.”

Lauretta huffs pointedly. “Won’t know until you try it again. Worth a _shot,_ eh? Eeeh? And besides, what would Esme say?” She straightens her back, folding her arms while squinting and frowning. She imitates Esme’s voice by making her voice lower, though it’s highly exaggerated. “Frea, you need somethin’ to channel your thoughts and feelin’s. Go take some fuckin’ pictures.”

Frea lets out a single laugh, still looking at the camera with hesitation.

“I suppose everyone needs a hobby.” She says softly, mostly in an attempt to convince herself.

What she doesn’t expect is Lauretta smacking her on the back, nearly making her drop the camera and choke on the air.

“That’s the spirit!” Lauretta then takes a hold of the pile of photos Marcus had left there, untouched after all this time, “Mind if I have a take a look?”

Frea nods, making a mental note to take a proper look at those for herself at some point. Whether or not seeing them again will alleviate her anxiety or only increase it… she doesn’t know. She rubs her thumb gently across the camera, and she wonders what should be the first she takes a picture of. Will it be… liberating?

Lauretta flips through the photos, whistling at some. “Not bad. Some of them are pretty cute. I know you wanted to get famous and all that, so I’ll throw you a bone.” At Frea’s questioning gaze, she holds her head up high with a cocky grin. 

“Well, I’m gonna be a famous doctor one day, _obviously._ I’ll give you the one of the lifetime opportunity to document my journey. Be my biographer, I guess, hah!”

There’s something vile speaking in Frea’s ear, her voice a twisted parody of itself as it murmurs, _“She’s making fun of you.”_

No, jokes are—

She manages to hide the flinch from the sudden whisper, but it is a seed that threatens to implant itself in her mind again. She purses her lips together and forces a smile, but just as she does so, Lauretta stops flipping through the photos.

“Alright, maybe that one was too soon.”

Frea blinks owlishly.

“Now before you start gettin’ ideas in your head again, no, I’m not laughin’ at you. It’s good to be able to laugh at shit, y’know. So if I crack a joke, I’m laughin’ _with_ you, alright? Or at least that’s the idea I wanna get across. But I guess that takes some gettin’ used to. My bad.” She waves her hand dismissively, “I don’t laugh behind people’s back. I ain’t about that shit.”

Opening her mouth, Frea finds herself at a loss of words. Unable to think of a proper response, she verbalizes something she had thought of earlier.

“You’re very… observant.”

Lauretta snorts. “I didn’t become a medic for nothin’. Besides, I had a moody younger bro that ran away from home like three times. You learn how to tell what people are thinkin’ pretty quickly from that.” She smirks, “One of my many talents. Although, uh, I didn’t really know what to do before, so we’ll ignore the past month alright.”

Feeling whiplash at the knowledge of Lauretta’s brother apparently being a serial runaway, Frea can only respond with a single bark of surprised laughter.

“Anyway,” Lauretta continues, “Now I know this is easier said than done, but you gotta find a way to chill. Really. The worst is behind us.”

Yes, she is no longer trapped in the endless self-made isolation that almost consumed her. It’s certainly hard to believe it could ever become worse than the pit of despair she had fallen into. With that belief, Frea begins feeling less nervous and fidgety— less ashamed.

And she can give Lauretta a reply with a smile and with mirth in her voice.

“It fucking better be behind us.”

The sheer gobsmacked expression that comes on Lauretta’s face makes Frea break into a fit of high-pitched giggles, and she’s soon joined in by the med— by her _friend._

They begin a round of stretching, and talk about anything they can think about. It goes on for hours.

But for Frea, it feels like minutes.

* * *

He plays chess with Esme again, sitting cross-legged on the floor as they usually do.

Though it's a bit of a miserable affair, Aidan still ruminates over Master and wrought with the desire to go to her, knowing that he can’t. Which in turn makes him feel a bit guilty, because she doesn’t deserve his lack of chess enthusiasm. 

Apparently sensing this, Esme stops the game mid-way.

“Would you rather do a puzzle?” She asks, eyes a bit forlorn, “Or maybe that Cat’s Cradle game?”

Aidan shrugs. He wonders himself if he would prefer either of those, and he realizes he would rather continue where he and Nathaniel left off with the drawing. He blinks, gazing at Esme, and then he wonders about drawing her portrait. 

_ <...I want to draw.> _

At Esme's smile, he feels as though he’s succeeded in something. She makes a move to sit next to him, probably to see what he’s drawing, but he makes a motion for her stop. He can feel his face begin to inexplicably become warm, unable to sign his intentions so he points at Esme with his pencil, then taps his sketchbook.

Realization dawns on her face, “Ah, alright. I’ll stay still as best as I’m able then.”

Admittedly, her sitting still and staring at him makes him want to squirm in slight embarrassment. He sketches out a circle for the head, then draws two lines from the left and right sides, which meet and form an open triangle and draws a curve line connecting the ends from the circle to the tip below. He continues going on, using the lines as a guide like how Nathaniel had taught him. Her scar might prove a bit awkward to draw, but… it may prove to be useful exercise for then he sketches Master’s birthmarks.

Clearly, he’s not being very subtle today, because Esme’s next words make him freeze.

“Frea is… a bit sick right now. She’s going to need some space.” The look of her eyes soften, “She’ll be alright, I’ll make sure of it. Like I said, she just needs some space.”

His pencil hovers just above his page, and looks at her with almost imploring eyes. His own lips tug slightly upwards at her reassurance and something light begins to bloom within his chest.

Esme reaches forward to ruffle his hair in a gesture that makes him feel even lighter.

“Now, I don’t want you thinking it’s somehow your fault, alright? It isn’t. None of it is. You’ll be able to see her again, if you _want,”_ she punctuates the word ‘want’ in an odd manner, but Aidan is too distracted by his hair ruffling to make much note of it, “You’re not in trouble. No one’s angry at you. And Frea’s going to be just fine.”

The heat that ghosts his cheeks doesn’t lessen, though the embarrassment is almost gone now. Whatever is making him blush, it’s something else, something he is unsure of. The fact that Master is sick and it— grounds him, in a way, though it does not stop him from wanting to go to her. If she’s sick he should be taking care of her, but Esme said she’ll take good of her.

And if that’s the case, Master is in good hands.

Aidan feels himself begin to calm.

_“You’re not in trouble. No one’s angry at you.”_

He’s going to find himself with a tight chest yet again later tonight.

He nods, and Esme takes her hand away from his head with a lopsided smile. “Ah, I said I would stay still. Whoops.”

Aidan continues drawing, and the two of them sit in companionable silence. Initially he wasn’t planning on putting much effort into the portrait, but now he finds himself with the need to get every detail on Esme’s face.

He’s in the midst of painstakingly sketching her eyebrows when she talks again.

“Say, Aidan, do you… have a last name?”

It gives him pause, though it’s not really something he needs to think about. He knows it’s something everyone here has and he doesn’t have it. He’s surprised Esme doesn’t already know of it.

_ <No.> _

She frowns, “I figured, but still… Was hoping for something else. I was hoping to start some paperwork for you,” She pauses, “But it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Despite being a bit befuddled now, Aidan nods and continues with the drawing. He notices a tap on the floorboards, Esme’s fingers seeming to become impatient. Maybe she’s bored of staying still, and he’s about to suggest another activity but he’s stopped by her voice.

“Do… men in the brothel you grew up with, do they also not have last names?”

Another odd question. 

_ <No.> _ He can’t stop himself from signing his own inquiry, _ <Why?> _

Esme smiles wryly, “A part of me was hoping I’d be able to track down the brothel you were from. Maybe even reunite you with some people you grew up with, or any… family.”

His throat becomes dry, the sensation feeling like thorns in his throat, and if he had a voice he thinks he would stutter and ramble. A part of him wants to hide behind his sketchbook but he doesn’t. He averts his gaze to the wall behind Esme in growing discomfort.

He doubts the brothel still stands... And that… that makes him feel sad.

A hand touches his, and he realizes he’s begun trembling.

“Hey, Aidan, I’m sorry. I— I didn’t mean to dredge up any bad memories.” She says, voice delicate, and it soothes him. 

Aidan shakes his head, his eyes feeling moist. _ <It’s alright.> _

“I know you had a father,” Her voice feels like a soft breeze, and it makes him look in her eyes again. There is kindness in her features, a gentleness. “I’m sure he was a good man. He raised you to the best of his ability despite his… situation. He raised a very talented and smart man. It would have been an honour to have met him.”

Aidan sucks in his breath between his teeth, hiccuping in the process. Ah, he still misses father, almost impossibly so, and the reminder of such a simple fact paralyzes him. He drops his sketchbook and pencil, unable to sign anything from his trembling hands as he nods fitfully. He was a good man. The best.

He wrenches his eyes shut from the swell of emotion, quickly moving forward and yearning for an anchor.

So he buries himself in Esme’s shoulder and hugs her. Almost immediately, Aidan begins to breathe more slowly, his body melting into her arms as every muscle loses its tension to her warmth. She gently rubs the back of his head. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes his future within these walls seem far less bleak.

“You and Frea, huh,” He hears her murmur, “Guess I must give the best hugs in the country.”

They stay like that for a moment longer, sometimes swaying gently in the embrace, her hand never stopping its gentle caress in his hair. Aidan sniffles, but he doesn’t quite begin crying, because he feels centered. Secure. Safe.

Everything’s going to be okay.

When they separate, he wipes his nose with his hand and a tiny smile plays on his lips.

His hands no longer shake.

_ <Thank you, Esme.> _

Shadows cast over the planes of her face, though the image is far from intimidating given that it's Esme, and her smile becomes a toothy one.

“Anytime, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, there was more I wanted to add (namely Nathaniel and Marcus) but I guess I'll have to split what I had planned for this chapter into two cause I don't wanna make it 20K words, lol.


	16. Artwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Aidan and Frey-Frey!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork done by my very talented sister, scheppke!  
> Check out her stuff here https://www.deviantart.com/scheppke/gallery
> 
> And if you want to commission her (which, like, you should), email her here and she'll give you the deets on pricing and all that fun stuff: scheppke.art@gmail.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doesn't Aidan look like a Disney prince? What a pretty boy.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I’m gonna write more Aidan POV  
> Also me: Writes more Frea POV

Frea gasps and her chest feels like it’s burning. She winces, something that vibrates throughout her entire being, and she groans. Waking in the middle of the night hard of breath has since been a long established routine, but the feeling of shame and frustration that courses through her every time she awakes has never lessened. The aftereffects of each nightmare continues to leave her trembling.

It is a small miracle, however, that the vestiges of her nightmare fade away quite quickly this time. That is not always something she is granted, but it would seem that tonight, she can at least gain a semblance of command over her breathing without needing to hear the echoes of her specter relentlessly taunt her. Those especially make the evenings hellish, and at times threatens to push her off the bed.

The sweat on her skin makes her feel as though she’s wearing a suit that’s far too tight for her. But now she knows she will not be able to fall asleep again. She is never able to do that. So she lays there, painfully awake and unable to sleep— awaiting the light of the sun. 

Her eyes move on their own accord, towards the spot where she would usually find Aidan kneeling. It’s vacant. Something about that… stings.

But it’s a feeling she attempts to temper, reminding herself of Lauretta’s comment about being put in the dog pound for being territorial. It makes her smile, though she’s not feeling very humorous at the moment. Really, she feels like shit. It’s mortifying, even, to think she has the right to… what,  _ miss  _ his presence after everything she’s done to him?

Frea lets out a shaky sigh, bringing her trembling hands to rub at her face. She briefly wonders how many hours of sleep she’s missing from these nightmares forcing her to waken so early. Does she have noticeable bags under her eyes now? She must look positively insane, being as dishevelled as she no doubt has become, like some type of tramp. Like someone  _ repulsive— _

She pinches the bridge of her nose, hard, eyes screwed tightly shut as she hisses out a tense bout of air from between her teeth. Not now. Not this night. Not any night  _ ever  _ again.

Frowning, her hands settle to her side, and she feels the frustration begin to fester.

She crossed some type of bridge when she was in the garden with Esme. She knows she has. She’s going to do better— had been doing better?— but… then what? Will these intrusive thoughts continue slithering into her mind? Will she time and time again need to remind herself of everything? Esme says the nightmares never stop, and the same has to be said for the voices in her head that insult and urge her to hurt others, right? Will the rest of her life be spent fighting a losing battle against her own mind?

That sounds  _ exhausting. _

And with a quivering hiccup that escapes her now dry throat, Frea realizes she’s terrified.

She knew from this start that this would require effort. But the burden almost seems impossible to bear to alone. She’s alone, isn’t she? To do all this, it’s  _ her _ responsibility. The reality is that the illnesses of her mind aren’t anyone else’s obligation to cater to and that— That’s intimidating beyond belief, and a thought worms its way into her head about how it would be so much  _ easier  _ to do nothing at all.

How can she not become too tired of it all?

How can she ever feel comfortable in her own skin again?

Frea stares at the blank ceiling, and she continues asking herself questions she cannot answer.

* * *

It’s hard not just going into Master’s room. It feels— wrong. But also right? He should be with her, but has also been told not to. An anxiety bubbles within him, but also bizarre… calmness? Is that it? He knows she will be alright. Esme said so. And Esme wouldn’t lie about that.

He’s not sure that Esme lies about anything.

Aidan stares at the door, fixates on it. Nothing demands his attention in something flashy and blatant. It is just a door, but upon entry is Master and that alone makes it the most significant door in the entire house.

And he wonders… That if he went into Master’s room, no one would punish him for it. That much has been very,  _ very  _ clear to him that they don’t really do that very often here. A part him considers that he  _ could  _ just ignore Esme’s command—

...Was it a command?

Maybe she wouldn’t get angry at him. She certainly wouldn’t lash out at him, he thinks, and that makes his body relax in its own accord. She would not let out a jeering guffaw in his direction. She would not yell at him. She would not grab his hair from behind, pulling sharply, only to push him on the ground. She would not hurt him. She... She just would not.

But.

But would she be disappointed in him?

He remembers a time when father brought in small cakes, and he had excitedly whispered to Aidan that he can have some, and asked that he share it with the other boys around his age. He pinkie promised father he would share. The confections were just so  _ sweet,  _ unlike anything he had tasted before, and being a child he just couldn’t really stop himself. He ate all the cakes. He did not share.

He’ll never forget father’s face when he admitted it. His brows were just barely pinched together with a slight frown playing on his lips. He hid it away with an admonishing finger as he playfully said,  _ “Oh, you.”  _

Aidan doesn’t want to disappoint Esme, for any reason.

Disappointing her would probably be worse than an actual punishment.

So he does go near the door, even though it feels as though it beckons him closer. He walks past it to walk up the stairs, and enter Nathaniel’s room instead. In doing so, there’s a slight creaking of the floorboards, and he sees the man sitting in his usual spot though his shoulder noticeably tense at the sound of Aidan coming in. 

_ <Hello,> _ Aidan signs, eyes briefly looking over to an unfinished painting he and Nathaniel had started some time ago. It’s more of a blob with legs than anything else, since apparently it needs to dry before they can do more things. Layers, Nathaniel called it. Seems like painting takes a long time. It’s supposed to be an elephant by the time they’re done with it.

He sits down, opening his sketchbook to two portraits— also unfinished— of Esme and Nathaniel. He gestures the the page,  _ <Portraits?> _ Then to the painting,  _ <Or painting?> _

The reaction he gets is not what he expects. Nathaniel scratches his cheek in a seemingly nervous manner, then he does his usual thing of rubbing his knuckles with his head slightly tilted. For a moment, he thinks he’s deep in thought, but his inquiry is soon answered.

“Um. Anything you want.”

That doesn’t seem right. Almost instinctively, Aidan edges closer, but not too close. Determination floods his features as he is overtaken with a sudden, burning need to find out what is possibly bothering Nathaniel. It’s not a feeling he can rightly explain, but it’s not something he even wants to question. It’s just something he’s already willingly accepted, he— he— There’s something about the younger man that makes him become…  _ protective _ .

Ah. So that’s the feeling.

_ <What’s wrong?> _ He has to sign the question twice because Nathaniel feels the need to avert his gaze a bit too early.

“Just…” He begins rubbing his knuckles faster, “Been thinking about your… arm.” Aidan pinches his brows together in concern when he hears guilt in his tone. “When you showed me I just sort of… blacked out, I guess? I just had to draw. I couldn’t really think of anything else. If I didn’t draw it would feel like my shirt has nettles under it and my chest was uncomfortable, and— and if I didn’t draw I think I would have cried or something. I just— guess I was really surprised and couldn’t think of anything else. I think I read in a book that that means I have a one track mind.”

His shoulders hunch slightly together, lips pursed, and a very slight redness becomes visible on his cheeks. “And, well, I couldn’t stop thinking about needing to say you’re my friend, either. So there.”

Aidan blinks. Then he nods slowly. He’s not sure if that really answers his question, though it doesn’t seem like he’ll have to wonder about it for very long as Nathaniel continues.

“And then you left and I ended up thinking for… a while.” He frowns, the hand rubbing his knuckle moving towards the edge of his sleeve, only to move back to his knuckles. With a withering sigh, he returns his hand to his sleeve and it pulls it up his arm, and the resulting sight makes Aidan suck in a quick breath.

His skin is mottled with splotchy shades of pale pinkness which is darker than his skin tone. It looks dry, taut; even pitted and ridged. It looks  _ far  _ too big for Aidan’s liking and he has to stop himself from reaching out and touching Nathaniel in a vain attempt to comfort the man.

Just as quickly as he revealed the scar, Nathaniel covers it up and exhales shakily.

“When I still had these stupid lessons on how to act like a man I had them with other boys. Every week we’d have the lessons held at someone else’s house. This one boy really didn’t like me. When we went to his house he kept snapping his fingers at my face,” He rubs his knuckles again as he grimaces sharply, “I hate noise. I really,  _ really  _ hate it. I— I can’t really explain it. It just makes my chest feel too tight and it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. So I tried to move away, but he grabbed my wrist, but it was from across the table. We were having tea and everything knocked the teapot over… so... Um... yeah.

“I got burnt,” he finishes lamely, his hand coming to a stop on his knuckles. His voice becomes quieter, almost hesitant. “So… I kind of know what it’s like to be a doormat, too.”

He squirms where he sits, seemingly in discomfort, “I, uh, I don’t mean to say like I know what it’s like to be  _ you,”  _ Nathaniel frowns, “You… clearly had it worse than I ever did. Sorry.”

While unsure of the reason he’s apologizing, Aidan can hear the genuineness from Nathaniel’s voice, and he also understands he was shown something incredibly personal. This small window of vulnerability Nathaniel has granted him causes Aidan to want to make sure the man feel… safe? His mind harkens back to father, and he wonders if this almost instinctual desire to— to  _ care  _ for someone was something he had felt when raising him. 

_ <I’m sorry that happened to you.> _

The movement on Nathaniel’s knuckles continues, and he averts his gaze as he shifts and begins to lie on his back, heaving another sigh. He sometimes flicks his eyes back to Aidan, presumably to see if he’s signing. A rueful smile plays on his features.

“I never had another etiquette lesson after that. I read in a book a man cannot be a good man without etiquette. Maybe that's why my siblings hate me, I’m not a good man.”

Aidan scoots closer, lips pursed together, hands moving faster as the feeling within him growing further.

_ <I don’t think they hate you.> _ Why would anyone hate Nathaniel? Aidan would certainly call him eccentric, but he’s a great artist and teacher— anyone who hates him is a damn  _ fool. _

Disbelief flickers in his eyes for only a moment, and Nathaniel snickers softly. “Oh, Marcus definitely does. I was supposed to go to some school with him, but I didn’t. I think he hates me cause I never let him be the big brother he likes to think himself of. It’s really annoying how he sometimes tries to drag me around with him.” He blinks, frowning, “I guess sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain,” a tiny blush dots his cheeks again, “I don’t know why I’m saying all this.”   
  


Aidan leans forward to sign again, but stops, and he frowns. He doesn't think he knows enough to say anything about whatever is happening between him and Marcus, and he doesn’t want to say anything bad about the other brother as well— despite not really knowing him as well. He doesn’t want anyone to hate anyone else, and he wonders if there’s something he can do to mend what’s happening here.

He’s unsure about that, but his hands move anyway.

_ <I don’t hate you.> _

The silence that blankets over them is a companionable one, a stark contrast to the insufferable tension he’s become so used to the entirety he’s been alive. For a moment, he thinks he sees Nathaniel’s lower lip quiver an almost imperceptible amount, but the man swallows and the movement stops. 

“Yeah,” he replies softly, “I don’t hate you either.”

The comfortable quiet continues, and Aidan finds himself idly continuing his sketch of Nathaniel’s portrait. Nathaniel, in turn, remains lying on his back and Aidan wonders if he’s going to go to sleep. After some minutes, a smirk tugs onto the man’s lips, his characteristic look of mischief reappearing.

“They would probably hate me for another reason, too,” Before Aidan can make a retort to that enigmatic remark, Nathaniel sits up. “I read in a book about this one painter. Really famous guy. Pretty much the only male painter I know about. They say he never married.”

Aidan tilts his head questionably.

“I read in a book that he lived with another man. They just called him a roommate and an assistant. But I think it was different.” His face falls for a moment, eyes widening, and he looks as though he regretted saying that. Jaw tensing, he seems to be overtaken by a strange onset of meekness.

“Um… before I say anything else… what do you think of men… living together?”

This is certainly becoming one of the more illuminating nights he’s spent with Nathaniel. Immediately, he thinks about the brothel. Men certainly lived together but—

He remembers seeing two men embracing each other, often in the shadows and out of sight. Sometimes he would accidentally come across them before being quickly ushered away by father. They always said they were practicing for when they would be purchased by a woman. Aidan supposed, at the time, that they were doing just that— practicing, as he remembers the first time a woman took him like  _ that.  _ He still remembers the blood that trickled down the back of his thighs.

But those men were different. There was a gentleness of how they took each other, and their stolen glances that spoke of unsaid promises. Aidan didn’t understand it then, but he’s not quite so naive about certain things anymore.

He smiles softly at Nathaniel.

_ <I think it’s good.> _

Nathaniel’s grin returns, though this one is sheepish, but still happy. Maybe even relieved? He giggles softly, “Now I  _ really  _ don’t hate you.” He takes his sketchbook, twirling his pencil in his hand confidently.

“Alright, let’s draw. But sometime when we meet up again I wanna take you out to the city. Remember when I said I’m invisible? No one will see us! We’ll be some princes, yeah? And— And… I’ll show you my muse. Maybe.”   
  


The excitement must be contagious, and Aidan nods, surprised at his own willingness to…  _ sneak out!!  _ He doesn’t think himself a prince, he really can’t imagine himself ever thinking so, but with no voice in his head berating him or cementing his slave status he feels… he feels…

_ Free? _

They speak of many topics, mostly related to art, and Aidan later learns that Nathaniel is fond of bread and breadsticks. He apparently doesn’t like anything with strong taste or textures, and he writes that fact down in the bottom of his sketchbook page. He knows he will always be taking that into account when he cooks food from now on.

They talk.

And they draw, and draw, and draw.

* * *

Marcus ambles awkwardly inside her room with a tea cart. Frea is in the midst of lazily skimming her eyes over the latest newspaper, and she’s been finding that most of them end up discussing the same things nowadays— mostly regarding men.

_ Fatherhood and careers will never be able to live in harmony,  _ one paragraph laments,  _ If a man is working who will care for his wife’s children? Who will tend to the home? Who will provide his wife with the tender, loving care that every woman is entitled to? There simply isn’t enough hours in a day that justifies a man working both in and outside the home. Even men of nobility, who have the funds to pay for a nanny and servants, will still dedicate time and energy to his masculine duties. _

_ Women provide, men care. It is a harmony Acadia established since time immemorial. It is a harmony that has worked since it was established. A man who cares and raises happy, healthy children will have done more for Asnain than any man who sacrifices the wellbeing of his family for a career. _

There are several more impassioned paragraphs that parrot the same sentiment, and Frea feels like she can almost hear Marcus’ voice espousing those very same values. Though that probably has to do with the fact that he’s speaking with her now.

“Hello, Frey-Frey,” he greets awkwardly, pouring her a cup of tea with movements just as stilted as his words, “I, um. I hope you’re doing well.”

For a quick agonizing few seconds a thought crosses Frea mind. Whisperings from the servants and guards, and the general… noise that she had created— she would be a fool to not think that Marcus has been at least peripherally aware of her crying into Esme’s embrace.

Oh, she must have been stressing him out monumentally without even realizing it. Or considering it.

And that gives her the motivation to say something she really should have said a month ago.

“Marcus, I’m—”

“Frey-Frey—”

They both blink, and Frea gestures to him to continue, though just in that moment Marcus does the same thing to urge her to say what she had in mind, causing a small smile to form on her lips.

“You can go first.” She says.

“O-Oh, no, I interrupted you. I’m sorry. You can go first.” He replies softly.

She’s  _ about  _ to repeat what she just said but with more gusto, but she’d rather not make this into an unfunny comedy routine. She clears her throat awkwardly, an excited pitter patter on the floor signifying Diana’s entrance which puts her mind just slightly at ease.

“Marcus, about what occurred between us a month ago, I’m sorry.” She frowns, “Especially the… comment I made regarding the stablegirl… incident, and comparing you to a— a prostitute. That was incredibly inappropriate of me. And nothing could have justified what I said. I’m sorry.”

She reminds herself to never do something so stupid in the future, because apologizing for a mishap really is the hardest fucking thing someone can do, the words feel like a hook being pulled out of her. Saying these words— and  _ meaning  _ it— takes a toll on her she didn’t expect, yet it is an oddly freeing experience all the same. 

Marcus’ eyes widen to the size of saucers and he stutters out his reply.

“G-Goodness, you… you don’t have to apologize for anything. I’ve been thinking you know, t-that my blathering must have surely become grating—”

“I’m going to stop you there before you go any further,” she interrupts, her tone more biting than she wanted so she softens her voice, “I was in a poor mood, I’ll admit that, but I was upset because of myself. And then I took out my frustration on you. I don’t actually think you’re grating. Your— Your boisterous personality is wonderful! Anyone who disagrees is fundamentally wrong!”

A small smile pulls on his lips, but her words don’t seem to convince him as he murmurs, “I think I’m grating.” At that, Frea can only stare with her mouth agape, and he continues as he idly pets Diana on the head. “Annoying. Irritating. Vexatious— I especially like that one.”

Frea’s eyes widens as she comes to the sickening realization that Marcus is beginning to get into his head in a fashion disturbingly similar to her, and she just  _ barely  _ restrains herself from throwing her pillow at him to knock him out of it.

So instead, she yells at him.

“I know how to read a thesaurus, too!”

Blinking, Marcus stares at her as if she had grown a second head. Diana, too, who tilts her head curiously.

“...E-Eh?”

With a sudden burst of energy she didn’t know she had, Frea points at him as she continues to sputter out her thoughts. “You’re getting into your head. Trapped in a spiral where you only pick out the negatives while ignoring the positives. Oh, believe me Marcus, I’ve been there! And it’s horrible!” She narrows her eyes, almost accusingly, though a tiny smile plays on her lips as she attempts to make light of the situation for his sake, “Stop it! I won’t let you just describe yourself with such negativity. Put that thesaurus down!”

It’s certainly not the most eloquent way to do things, but attempting to get her brother out of a rut is… rewarding, in a way. Something warm blooms within her, something she had not felt before in a considerable amount of time.

He continues blinking, his startled expression never leaving him as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. He speaks with diffident slowness, his gaze fastened upon his cup of tea.

“Um, sorry—”

“Marcus, come on, the last thing I want is for you to apologize for nothing—”

Her brother scrunches his face together with a look of annoyance before it disappears, and he huffs. “Frey-Frey, please, let me get my thoughts out for just a moment.”

She’s  _ about  _ to make a comment, though she restrains herself. Frea sheepishly gestures for him to continue.

“Ever since our little… spat, I’ve just been… lost in my own thoughts. I’ve been thinking that maybe I am at fault for not garnering a woman’s attention. You were right, I really am no better than a prostitute.”

Her mouth opens for a retort but his side-glance prevents her from doing so.

“I hardly remember that stablegirl. Not a name, or even features. I just threw myself at her because… I suppose the salacious nature of it attracted me.” His smile is gloomy, “I felt as though I was a protagonist of a dirty novel. It was  _ exciting, _ but well… you know how short our little trysts lasted. There were moments afterwards where I imagined her throwing pebbles at my window to get my attention, and then she’d whisk me away, just like in a book…”

His voice softens to a murmur, but he returns to speaking normally after swallowing thickly, his hand still on Diana.

“I only met Angelea twice in the time I knew her. I made very sure to do what was expected of me, I did not praise myself too much. I only mentioned hobbies considered appropriate. I made sure I looked presentable. I brewed her tea,” he huffs softly, “Oh yes, I went to Epcarres for years just to learn how to brew some blasted tea. Years well spent.” He scowls at the cups on the cart, his voice now laden with a tired numbness.

“During our… meetings, if you could even call them those, all I did was extoll endless compliments on her, trying to get on her good side. Like a dog wanting a biscuit from its master… or a whore desperately trying to get their client in bed. I’d switch between the two depending on my mood. At the time I imagined her as the perfect woman, someone who could provide for me and make my life comfortable. Someone gentle. Someone nice.

“When the wedding was annulled I spent nights crying in my bed,” His breath stutters as he sighs shakily, “I would always imagine her gallantly coming to my rescue and we’d elope and it would be this grand spectacle… just like— just like in a damn book.”

He looks at her with a half-hearted grin bereft of any happiness, and his forlorn eyes are noticeably wet, a culmination that renders Frea speechless, hand clenching on the bed sheets as she wants to console her brother but finds herself unable to do something so simple.

“But she hasn’t sent me a single letter or anything of the sort since then— but why would she? We didn’t truly know each other. I was merely a footnote in her life. I’ve only ever projected my feelings onto her, seeing her as this messiah like woman, and she— she must have only seen a man who was the very picture of desperate! Because I  _ am  _ desperate, Frey-Frey! Everyone else must see that, too!”

His breath hitches, and Diana let out a small whine as she paws at his lap and licks his fingers.

“I just— I just…” He sniffles. “I just want to know what it’s like to fall in love. I w-want my heart to skip a beat. I want a woman to take my breath away. But reality is seldom so romantic, and all I’ve ever achieved is giving my body to a stablegirl I barely knew because I thought that’s what she wanted… o-or I flounder in front of a noblewoman, saying what I also thought she just  _ wanted.  _ It’s gotten to the point that I don’t even know who I am anymore! I’m trying to be the person everyone says women want that I— that I don’t know if I truly believe what I say about myself!

“So I keep thinking about what I must be doing wrong,” his despondent eyes lands on the newspaper, and his face contorts in a sharp grimace as a single tear sheds from his one of his eyes, “The world feels like it’s changing so fast. I-It’s so scary. So I find myself getting angry b-because… because I don’t want to be left behind…? I don’t know… I don’t know anything… so I just c-convince myself the reason I’m being left behind is because I’m so grating. I’m a failure as a man for women, as well as a failure for men, too. Not only that, b-but a failure as a brother and a son—!!”

His shoulders tremble, his noises like those of a distressed child, raw from the inside. He tightly shuts his eyes as he sniffles, rubbing his face with shaking hands. His sounds only occasionally interrupted with Diana’s continued whines. Seeing her brother overcome with the very same feelings she has become intimately familiar with, she can only see herself in him— She can see how for him the world around must be becoming a blur of colour that melts to gray and turns into a dark void. The weight in his chest and locks in his throat. The pain in the back of the mind that comes forward by the slightest reminder.

Frea leans forward, just barely about to reach him with her hand. “M-Marcus,” she swallows heavily, having been unaware of how parched her throat had become, “I… I had no idea, please—”

Marcus shakes his head vigorously, tear drops flying from his pallid cheeks.

“How—How could I become upset by all this? When my feelings are just a shadow of what you must be feeling? You l-lost your legs! I don’t have the  _ right.” _

Face morphing into a look of astonishment, she can only utter a perplexed, “What?”

“Look at me, crying about this. It must feel like I’m trying to vy for attention, isn’t it? M-Me failing to attract a woman is such a paltry thing when compared to you. No one wants a man who whines about himself incessantly. That’s what m-mother says. O-Oh, Frey-Frey, I must be a laughing stock to everyone else… Every man I know is getting married and yet h-here I am...”

A small, irrational single bark of laughter erupts from him, his accompanying smile holding no humour. “Aha, look at me, whining about myself again. I must be so irritating, e-eh? I need— I need to read that thesaurus you speak of more, because clearly I haven’t found enough words to describe how much of a utter failure I am—”

Feeling as though she’s about to pop a blood vessel from how tense her jaw feels, Frea does the only thing she can think of, something that’s already crossed her mind before.

She throws her pillow at him, the action causing Diana to scatter and run out the door.

“Just— Calm down for a second, Marcus!”

Goddammit.  _ Goddammit.  _ Thank fuck that it’s just the two of them in this blasted room, but they’ve probably woken everyone in the damn house at this point. 

But who cares about that? Not Frea, not when she’s got a brother who’s a little  _ too  _ interested in self-flagellation. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not this morning, not  _ any  _ morning.

His breathing remains erratic, and Marcus stares at her in bewilderment. He even looks a tad bit offended that she threw a pillow at him which at this point Frea would consider a good thing. Great, even. Anything to get him out this rut he’s dug himself into.

“Like I said,” she heaves a troubled sigh and runs a hand through her hair, “I know what you’re going through. Believe me. Always thinking the same deluge of insults. Always thinking you have to be a certain way. Always thinking everyone is laughing at you. I’ve been there.”

_ I’m still there,  _ she thinks bitterly, but she ignores it. She leans forward again, hoping her touch and smile are reassuring, and he sharply averts his gaze, as if in shame.

“I’m going to be blunt. You’re wrong. About pretty much everything. You’re not a failure, and anyone who says otherwise is, well, like I said before: They’re fundamentally wrong, too.”

He shifts in his seat, brows furrowing together and Frea knows that he doesn’t believe her.

“You’re easily the best hair wreath artist this family has ever had. Just one look from the designs from generations ago to yours— the increase of quality and creativity is obvious to anyone! You’re a talented carpenter who can make an entire aviary by himself! And— And your tea,” She quickly takes a sip from her cup, the taste quickly invigorating her, “Ceylon black tea blended with Jasmine with a touch of lemon. So good. Your blends never cease to impress!”

Diana makes her return then, hesitantly peeking her head through the door before trotting back to Marcus and nuzzling his hand. “I’m twenty-five,” he mutters, as if that proves anything she just said wrong.

“So what? What is it that one proverb says, ‘love has no ending’? You’re not under some timer—”

“Oh, that must be so  _ easy  _ for a woman to say.”

The bite in his voice forces her mouth shut, and apparently he realizes his own tone as he gasps softly.

“S-Sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his eyes and still sniffling.

Frea frowns as she chews on her lower lip. He may have not said it out loud, but his meaning is loud and clear. They may be siblings, but he’s a man, and therefore they ultimately live in different worlds. She could go on and on about he’ll eventually meet the love of his life, how there’s a woman who finds his passion for birds endearing is out there, and good things will come— but ultimately… platitudes like that are pointless. They don’t really lead anywhere.

But that won’t stop her from at least trying.

“I meant what I said. Every word and… and especially the apology, Marcus.” She takes him returning to half-heartedly patting Diana as a good sign and continues, “Just because you may think yourself a failure doesn’t mean you actually are one. You give yourself too little credit.”

She knows what he’s feeling won’t leave overnight, but at the very least, she hopes that she can help him on the path to… to something more productive. Like how Esme has done for her.

Marcus does not look at her, instead keeping his gaze on Diana who happily takes his attention.

“...I didn’t come here with the intention of bawling my eyes out. I must have sounded like I had been overcome with a case of hysteria. I’m sorry.”

It’s a shame she doesn’t have another pillow to throw at him. By now she feels as though she’s grasping at straws.

“Diana doesn’t think of you as a failure,” she splutters out quickly. It gets a reaction she’ll consider a success, Marcus stills his movements, eyes finally meeting hers again. Diana’s tail thumping on the floor is the only sound in the room before her brother breaks the silence.

“Diana doesn’t think of me as a failure,” he repeats in disbelief.

Frea nods. “Yes, just look at her. She adores you.”

His eyes are red, and she notices that his lips are cracked as well, but it’s such a small thing when after a beat of silence a quick laugh comes out of him. It’s like a newly sprung leak— timid at first, stopping and starting. 

“I do believe that’s because she is a dog.” He says wryly, scratching behind Diana’s ears with more fervour, “But I suppose it’s nice to have someone who looks at you as though they owe you the world, human or not. Even if the adoration is only due to me walking her more often than anyone else.”

The ensuing quiet is due to both of them having no idea how to carry on the conversation. At least, that’s what Frea assumes. She feels as though she’s partly succeeded in what she set out to do, Marcus’ breathing has calmed down, and so has the rest of his features. After more minutes of just him giving Diana attention and her drinking her now tepid tea, he speaks again.

“You say anyone who thinks of me as… you know… they are ‘fundamentally wrong,’” another soft sardonic laugh comes from his lips, “Does that include even mother?”

She doesn’t even need to think about her answer.

_ “Especially  _ mother.”

His voice becomes scandalous. “Frey-frey! You can’t let mother hear you say that, hehe.”

They share a moment of snickering, and while the anxiety of Marcus crying still lingers in the air, it does lessen considerably the more the tension leaves his body. He becomes a lot more mellow the more they eat breakfast and speak to one another.

She doesn’t like the implication of him asking about mother being wrong about him being a failure. Did she really say…? And she said that  _ to  _ him?

She  _ wants  _ to just get up from here and confront her directly, even if the mere thought makes a soft panic crawl through her skin, her heart twisting and sinking with nerves. She’s too  _ weak _ for something like that. 

_ Only for now, anyway. _

Soon, the conversation turns to her telling Marcus a great deal of the… tumultuous emotions she had felt during the past month, similar to what she said to Esme and Lauretta, if only to assure him that her saying what she said wasn’t his fault. If anything, she goes out her way to mention how his visits provided with rare moments of reprieve when she wasn’t stuck in her head.

Though it doesn’t really get the reaction she hopes, as he meekly glances towards her, saying, “Whatever did I do to give you the impression that I… laugh behind your back? I’m sorry—”

“Marcus, so help me, if you apologize one more time I’m throwing this tea cart at you.” Her lips twitch slightly when she sees her comment makes his body slacken, almost with relief. “I’m saying all this to tell you that I had my head so far up my ass that I believed things that weren’t true. Just because I convinced myself of falsehoods doesn’t mean you should, too. You’re not grating, or whatever word you want to use.” A beat of silence, and her mouth forms into a lopsided grin, “So yeah, put that nasty thesaurus down. It does you no good having the same ugly words repeated in your head.”

Marcus opens his mouth, then closes it, his hand going to cover his lips. His whispers with disbelief, though there’s mirth in his tone. 

“Head so far up my ass… oh my… Wherever did you learn that?”

Frea snorts. “Lauretta has some pretty interesting phrases, I’ll give her that much.”

They speak a little more, mostly of unrelated topics that act more of a distraction than anything else. She’s well aware there must be a bit of a storm in Marcus’ head but at least his eyes are no longer red or puffy. At moments, Frea gives him loose strands of her hair after he asks, and he takes them while uttering softly about making the greatest hair wreath this family has ever seen. He leans back, hands rubbing his face. 

“Life… can be frustrating sometimes, I suppose. I’ll admit that there are days that draw out so long and thin that I am surprised when the sun finally sets. Those are always the difficult ones. Especially when I’m alone.”

Frea lifts her teacup up and nods, “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.”

He chuckles. “I didn’t quite imagine that my worst enemy would apparently be the thesaurus that’s in my head, and yet here we are. It makes it far less intimidating when you just think of it as a book, heh. Thank you, Frey-Frey.”

“No problem. I’m… glad we had this conversation. And for what it’s worth, I do believe you’ll find a woman who’s deserving of you, one day.  _ And—  _ If you want to continue doing morning prayers again, I’d be more than happy to do so. I believe at least having some type of routine would be beneficial for the both of us.”

He sheepishly averts his gaze, nodding, and his eyes landing on the newspaper again. He picks it up, eyes skimming the contents, his hands finally free from petting Diana who now snores loudly next to his seat. At times his eyebrows furrow together, and he sighs dejectedly. Before Frea can ask which part he’s reading, a familiar face pops through the door. 

“Howdy,” Lauretta chirps, chin jutting towards Frea, “Ready to get that body in action? I wanna make sure you’re gettin’ out and wheeling that chair around. Get that blood pumpin’.”

When she enters, Marcus’ back straightens and he sets the newspaper aside, head lowered. Muscle memory, Frea assumes, as that’s generally the sitting position expected of a man when he’s in the company of a woman unrelated to him. Lauretta pulls up a seat next to him, greeting him before beginning to speak with her. Judging by her lax attitude, she has no idea of the conversation she and Marcus just had, something Frea is thankful about for her brother’s sake. As much as she doesn’t think Lauretta would judge him for anything like that, it would nonetheless be embarrassing for him to have had an audience to his frustrations.

They speak. They get ready for the morning.

Everything gradually becomes relaxing.

* * *

The topic of nightmares arise when Esme comes for her near daily visits. Lauretta had gone off to do some paperwork with Dr. Kippe, leaving the two of them by themselves.

Her face is stern, though the serenity of the yard and the rhythmic sounds of the birds chirping and servants doing their duties puts Frea’s mind at ease.

“It may be useful to try breathing exercises before you go to bed. I personally try to meditate before I sleep. I guess it makes me feel more in control of things. And when I do wake up because of a nightmare, I do those breathing exercises again. I relax my muscles. And remind yourself it’s a nightmare. It’s not real.” Her mouth splits into a rueful grin, “And remind yourself that every little mistake is not actually going to lead to a catastrophe.”

“What type of breathing exercises?” Frea asks.

“Just deep breathing. Something real slow. You should be in a comfortable position and do that for about ten minutes, I think. It helps you deal with the stress.”

Frea pinches her brows together, “That’s really it?”

Esme huffs, taking a bite of one of the sugar cookies on the table and pointing at Frea with it. “No one said it was a foolproof technique. It helps, trust me. Learning how to deal with nightmares is the first step to making them a lesser occurrence.”

Frea sits back, tongue clicking as she sets her pencil down. She had been ready to write an entire system— a walkthrough of some kind— that she can reference whenever she wakes up. But for it to mainly boil down to just breathing slow and heavily? She’s already doing that.

That’s… almost disappointing. And makes her feel a little like an idiot, though she isn’t sure how much of that is due to her mind going out of its damn way to make her feel like a dullard with every stray thought that insults her.

“Why does the mind do this…? What’s the point?”

With her dissatisfaction clear in Frea’s voice, Esme replies softly.

“Heh, now that's a question I don’t think anyone will ever be able to answer. The brain’s a bit of an enigma like that. It might be best not to think about it too hard.”

Frea blows an annoyed breath in response, sitting back in her chair with a small scowl painted on her features. When her eyes meet Esme’s, the older woman looks pensive.

“There are times where I see myself in my home again,” Her eyes are so different in moments like these, more soft than she knew eyes could be. The professional general is gone and instead it is the eyes of one with an overflowing compassion due to… having experienced too much loss in her life, “When I walk through the empty halls I hear it— the whimpering and crying of my— my husband. And when I finally get to him I can… I can…”

She wrenches her eyes shut before opening them with a stuttering breath. “I can never reach him. No matter how much I run, I never get any closer. Sometimes he even gets further away until I can’t see him again. And there are nights when… When I’m in Utreau… and the same thing happens with you. I can never reach you. You’re lying in a bloody heap and I can’t do  _ anything.” _

Frea looks down, eyes trained on her hands that she wrings together in a vain attempt to stop the seeping hollowness in her chest sink any further.

“When… when my husband died, I drank. I drank all the vodka and other shit I could to numb everything. You should have seen the look on my daughter’s face,” Her expression pinches into one of regret— her voice becoming twinged with… disgust, that Frea can only imagine is directed to herself. “When it came to the worst of it I wondered if I should just end it all.”

From the silence of the garden, her voice is loud and clear and  _ startling,  _ and yet it feels so, so disconnected. The shock freezes Frea.

“You…?” She does not finish the question, but her meaning is clear enough to Esme, who nods.

Hands suddenly grip Frea’s bicep— Esme’s hold is tight like a falcon’s talons, yet it is something desperate. “If you ever,  _ ever  _ find yourself sinking that deep for whatever reason, you come to me. I don’t give a shit if I’m halfway across the country, you get someone to get me. You get Lauretta. You— You get your brothers. You get that Saskia woman. You get your dog if you need to. Anyone you can trust. And we remind you. We fucking remind you what you’ve got to live for, alright? Do you understand?”

Swallowing thickly, Frea nods fitfully. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

Esme lets her go, and after a moment she clears her throat. “Sorry, I hope I wasn’t too intense there.”

“No, it’s alright…” Frea’s voice is quiet, “Considering… everything, I think it’s warranted.”

“Heh. You know, in the past, I think I would have scoffed at such raw sentiment. Maybe I’m getting soft. You kiddos really out there re-awakening my long dead maternal instinct, huh?”

It’s an attempt to make light of a tense topic of conversation, obviously, but before that can happen Frea feels the need to… say something else. She makes a mental note to say something similar for Marcus, but for right now someone else needs to hear those very same words.

“You too.” She says, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you’re ever… sinking, you can come to me. I’ll try my best to get you out of it… and pick up the pieces.”

Something so entirely earnest makes her feel vulnerable, but it’s worth it for Esme’s look of surprise morphing into a genuine smile.

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Frea.” She quirks a brow, “Or should I call you Frey-Frey? That’s a pretty cute nickname you got for yourself.”

She feels her cheeks warm with an embarrassed laugh. “Well, yes. You can call me by whichever name you prefer.”

“When I was younger, everyone called me Emmy.” Esme’s grin widens, “Or is it too weird to call an old woman by her childhood nickname?”

“Esme, I never took you as someone who teases.”

“Oh, I can guarantee you my husband was a victim of years of teasing. I was pretty relentless.”

They exchange more banter, though at some point Frea can’t help but mention something that’s been a niggling thought hanging in the back of her mind.

“I hope you and your daughter can patch things up one day.”

Esme is a good woman, and Frea likes to think her daughter is as well. She wants to believe that what is happening can be repaired for Esme’s sake. After everything, she deserves that much and so much more.

And yet, the thought stabs at Frea. Mother and daughter… having the relationship they’re meant to have— images of her own mother appears in front of her whenever she closes her eyes. She wants to believe there is hope for Esme and her child.

Frea does not have hope for herself and her mother. She swallows again, but this time the action feels painful and scratching. It unsettles something within her, and it feels like the aftereffects of a nightmare that would normally leave her trembling. If she focuses too hard on it, she thinks she might hear that horrid cackling she is loath to admit she’s become used to. 

She does not vocalize the feeling outloud. And she tries not to think about it.

“You and me both, kid,” Esme’s voice takes her out of her ruminations, “But one thing at a time.” She juts her chin forward, “How’re your legs? Medication making them feel less painful?”

Frea blinks. “...I had been so focused on everything else that didn’t even think to take note of that.”

“Hah! Well, if you didn’t notice it, then I guess it must be working.”

Frea nods before giving a snort, taking a biscuit to munch on, and the two of them no longer speak of nightmares.

* * *

Aidan finds it difficult to carry the colourfully wrapped confections in his hands. Some of them threaten to spill from his grip and fall to the ground, but he is assisted by a chuckling Esme.

“Maybe the shopkeeper was right. I did go overboard with my little shopping spree, but I wanted to make sure you got all the good stuff.” She points at one of them resting on his palm, “Personally, my favourite is the chocolate covered pralines. They’re wrapped in purple.”

He looks down at his hands, then back at Esme. He gingerly places the sweets on the floor next to him so as to not squish them before returning his gaze to the game of chess they have set up. Idly, he notes that they’ve never actually played this game without sitting on the floor in his room.

_ <I didn’t know you like sweets so much.> _

Definitely something else to consider when he cooks.

“Bet I don’t look like the usual sweet-tooth, eh? It certainly beats drinking. Now, it’s your turn.”

Aidan doesn’t really have the heart to tell her he doesn’t care much for sweet things.

He moves one of his rooks, but everytime Esme moves her piece his eyes glance towards the candy anyway. He hears her chuckle softly.

“You can have some of them now, you know.”

He shakes his head.  _ <Can you give Master some?> _

A look of surprise flickers on her face and she raises a questioning brow. His hands move quickly.

_ <It feels wrong to have sweets when Master doesn’t. Does she have any?> _

She doesn’t  _ quite  _ frown, though she gets awfully close. Thankfully it’s not the disappointment Aidan is frankly terrified of. Though her long, careful and sagacious fixated look makes him feel just… a little bit weird. Not nervous— okay maybe a little bit, and that’s not a feeling he thinks he’d ever be able to grow out of whenever a woman stares at him.

Esme’s lips break into a smile. “Don’t you worry, kid. I’ll make sure she gets her sugar.” A slight pause, “Feels wrong, huh. You wouldn’t have eaten these if Frea didn’t have her own sweets?”

With a quick jerk of his head, Aidan nods.  _ <I’d give my sweets to her. It’s only right.> _ He’s done that before, anyhow. Though he doesn’t know if she ever actually ate the sweets in the end.

Her eyes narrow, nothing accusatory, but questioning all the same.

“Any reason you feel that way?”

_ <Because…> _ It takes him a moment to formulate a response. He’s never had to  _ explain  _ himself. It was simply expected. Normal. Why wouldn’t he want Master to have her own sweets?  _ <It’s not right for me to have something she doesn’t.> _

“I see,” she says slowly, her face now unreadable. She taps on the chessboard as she gathers her own thoughts together. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you reminded me I should get her some. It was awfully rude of me to not share properly.”

There’s something forced in that reply.

But when they continue playing chess, it’s not something he lingers on. She was probably just a bit embarrassed about forgetting Master’s sweets. Their game continues on, Esme reeling back dramatically when he gets a checkmate.

“Ah, you got me, kid!”

As thrilling as it is to be the winner of the game, he pouts his lips and eyes her suspiciously.

_ <You are going easy on me.> _

She utters a surprised laugh. “Nah, kid, you’re the genuine article. Far too talented for me to keep up with.”

He glances to the side, wiggling where he sits, and feeling his cheeks warm from her compliments. Such words continue to make him feel like in a dream— but… he continues to purse his lips together in a poorly hidden pout.

_ <I won’t become a good player if you coddle me.> _

He blinks widely, as does Esme, but then she practically  _ beams  _ at him before he can think of anything else. Such a wide smile he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve the sight, but the two of them set up another game before he can ruminate further on that, too.

“Now that’s what I like to hear, kid.” Esme says, ruffling his hair.

The chessboard set up, they begin another game and—

She wipes the floor with him.

Aidan stares in astonishment at the board. His mind replaying the literal ten minutes that just occurred. Esme beat him in six moves, and he belatedly realizes he’s staring with his mouth open, so he clamps his mouth shut. Lips still formed in a pout, he feels none of the defeat he half expected to, instead it’s—  _ motivation. _

_ <I…> _ He signs, pointing at Esme for a quick moment,  _ <Will catch up to you!!> _

She throws her head back with a bellow of a laugh, slapping her knee before looking back at him with delight.

“Is that right?” She smirks widely, “I look forward to having you as my rival, kid.”

* * *

A cocky voice echoes as a cacophony in her head and— everywhere else. It reverberates through her very core, almost like the voice itself is tangible, trapping her and wrapping around her like a cocoon she cannot escape out of. A silent scream erupts from her, as she convulses and flails in the void her mind traps her in. She pounds her fists on the nonexistent ground, eyes blown wide and feral as she a huff of indignation.

“Incapable and useless.”

The other Frea prowls around her, skipping occasionally because apparently she loathes herself just  _ that _ much. Her footsteps also echo in the endless chasm, and her grin is enough to curdle milk.

“You don’t  _ really  _ think you can amount to anything, do you? Listen more closely, maybe then you’ll finally hear everyone laughing at you. Because they are!”

There’s a pounding in her head, a feeling so real she’s half expecting her twin to actually be hitting her with a fucking hammer. She grunts, glowering at the specter as she summons all the strength she’s able to spit out a growl.

“Incapable and useless? You need a better thesaurus. I liked the word repulsive more.” She grabs onto the specter’s leg, and anger boils deep in Frea’s system, as hot as lava. It churns within, hungry for destruction, and she knows it's too much for her to handle even within her own dream. 

It doesn’t stop her gritting out her next words.

“Fuck off.”

This is  _ her  _ head. This is  _ her  _ dream. She can’t just allow these things to happen anymore, and while she might still be taking this bullshit lying down she’s going to give her mind a… well, a piece of her mind.

The other Frea’s eye twitches, her expression contorting to one of absolute disdain. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” She bites back, and the next thing Frea realizes is that there’s a boot swinging to her face.

The force is enough to startle her awake.

Once more, she finds herself unable to properly breathe, and her eyes feel like stones sitting in her sockets. There is a small solace, tiny even, knowing that these nightmares are supposed to lessen eventually, but she thinks she would give even more of her legs for this to fucking stop already.

Her blankets make her feel far too warm, and once lucid enough, she sluggishly frees herself from their embrace. Her breathing remains unsteady and quick, and with clenching fists she attempts to steady herself. To quiet her hammering chest, and hopelessly pounding migraine. She remains laying on her back, and closes her eyes— though not without considerable hesitation. Her quaking hands lay restless at her side, and so she decides to lay one flat on her chest, with the other on her stomach.

And she breathes.

It’s harder this time around. She can still—  _ hear  _ things. And feel. The phantom pain in her stumps return but it’s… muted.

Small miracles.

Her chest rises and falls, and she slows her breathing further. Is she simply not doing this right? How does someone not breathe correctly? She pinches one of her hands to temper her useless frustration, and renews her focus solely on her breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She sucks in the air as if it were treacle.  _ That wasn’t real,  _ she thinks, and she repeats it.

Frea lays there for several minutes. She is no longer trembling, her heart calm, and her mind is quiet. Her chest no longer heaves in a painful contortion, as if it all collapses in of itself in a terrible whirlwind. Her body feels… weirdly whole. It took her several minutes— maybe an hour? Not like she’s keeping track of anything— and for once after waking up from a nightmare she feels… she feels...

_ Control,  _ she blearlily thinks, followed by a bewildered,  _ huh. _

But she feels it just barely..

She blinks, the world slowly coming into focus.

And all she sees is the blank ceiling.

For several more minutes, she thinks.

* * *

Marcus appears in his allotted time for breakfast, this time rolling in some incense and other small items for morning prayers. She doesn’t really consider herself very religious anymore but, hey, incense.

Before he sets up the tea cart, she says an idea that’s implanted itself in her mind and she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

“Marcus, could you tape the photos on the ceiling? The ones on the table.”

He looks at her inquisitively, glancing at the pile of photos of her childhood that she’s been neglecting for a while now.

“On the ceiling?”

She can’t quite help but smile.

“Yes. So that every time I wake up, I am reminded of what I have.”

* * *

“Not that I don’t love horses but all I’m sayin’ is that an automobile thing standin’ at the curb won’t reach over and bite your arm off as you walk by.”

It had been overcast since Frea had awoken. The sky is awash with various shades of grey, in places a chink of light manages to break through, but overall it feels as though they’re just waiting for the rain to begin coming down. It wasn’t enough to stop her and Lauretta going out to a small hill in the yard to just lay on the grass and talk, even if that included Frea basically falling off her chair— she would have landed on her stumps but luckily Lauretta was quick enough to not let that happen.

She watches the clouds slowly move in the sky, and a small breeze passes over them.

“You truly think that one day we’ll have no need for horses?”

Beside her, Lauretta chuckles. “I mean, if a train can move on it’s own, why can’t a carriage? Just need to stick a small steam engine in that sucker.” From the periphery of her vision, Frea can see her grin. “And once horses get replaced by engines, y’know what that means? Everyone’s gonna be eatin’ horses for the next couple of years!”

“I’m not so sure. Many people care too much for their working animals to eat them, even if they become obsolete.”

“And they’re bloody expensive to keep. Trust me, once people find out how tasty they are, they’re all goin’ to the slaughterhouse.”

Frea quirks a brow at her, “You’ve eaten horse?”

“Uh huh. Sure they’re important to the farm but if they break a leg or somethin’ they’re gettin’ munched on.” Lauretta leans forward, her grin becoming an impish one, “Y’know what I’ve also eaten? Dog.”

Tightening her embrace on Diana— who’s been lying on top of Frea for the past half hour— she morphs her expression into one of mock offense. 

“Lauretta! You would  _ never.” _

“Better hide your little pooch ‘cause I’m comin’ after her!” She moves in a way where it looks as though she’s about to pounce on Diana, but the dog doesn’t so much as react to her, continuing to noisily sleep on Frea’s chest. Seeing this, Lauretta dramatically lays back down, “Shucks. My pride is tattered. Irreparable!”

Frea lazily rubs her hand on Diana’s thick black fur, eyes flicking back at Lauretta. “And whatever made you eat dog?”

“I’ll admit, I like ‘em too much to eat them normally. I only ate a dog once. It was when the farm was havin’ some trouble, not a lot of sheep givin’ birth for some reason. We had an old mutt who wasn’t doin’ any work so,” She shrugs, “Papaw made him for dinner, since the sheep was still too valuable. I mean, I was a kiddo then, and papaw didn’t say it was dog. Tasted like a mix of mutton and beef. When I found out, man, I fuckin’ wailed about it, heh.”

Lauretta glances at Frea with another smirk, “Y’know, we had this sayin’ at home. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. I guess it would have been more accurate to say if you don’t work, you get eaten, hah!”

They share a chuckle, with Lauretta giving more anecdotes of her life on the farm. It sounds like a difficult lifestyle, though there’s always a glimmer in her friend’s eyes whenever she speaks of it. Frea wonders if she misses it.

As Lauretta talks her ear off, Frea finds herself tracing her camera with her fingers. It was mostly just a spur of the moment idea to take the thing with her when they went out. She had been thinking about the pictures that are now taped to her ceiling, and it felt natural to bring it. It’s… satisfyingly heavy in her hand, but admittedly, when she holds it over her head it takes her moment to remember how to use it. 

She unfolds the lens, making it jut out, closing one of her eyes as the other looks through the viewfinder. A familiar whirring noise occurs when she focuses the image, and with a  _ click  _ she takes a single photo.

Photos are in black and white, so not like a picture of a cloudy sky is going to be very impressive. Even with colour, it still wouldn’t be a good photo.

Maybe that’s why she feels… nothing. It’s a hollowness that forces a weary sigh to come out of her.

“Well, that didn’t sound too chipper,” She hears Lauretta comment, “Somethin’ eatin’ at you?”

“Do you ever feel like you have no control in your life?”

The frown is evident in Lauretta’s voice. 

“Pretty sure everyone does at least once in their lives. I mean, shucks, we all got our low points, y’know?”

Frea sets the camera back on the grass, her hands returning to gentle caressing Diana who remains asleep on her. She wonders if other people’s low points last as long as hers. Memories and pessimism begin to weigh heavy in her mind. It’s temporary, somewhat— she  _ was  _ just able to laugh with Lauretta. She can exchange banter with friends mostly fine now— but it’s also permanent; however high she rises and how long she stays away this is the base-line she always seemed to return to. Endless like the void of her nightmares.

“I just…” Her brows pinch together as she continues to look at the sky, “I just thought taking a picture would… give me something. Anything. But there was no grand realization about anything. I feel like there should have been but there wasn’t. I— I wanted it to make me feel like I was in control of something.” Her voice ends in a murmur.

There’s a small pause before Lauretta speaks again, and there’s some audible shifting on the grass and from the corner of her eyes Frea knows she’s lying on her side now.

“If you’re gonna go out lookin’ for a grand ol’ epiphany, you’re never gonna find it.” She glances to her side, seeing her friend sporting a most earnest and sincere expression. “Shit like that can only happen organically when you don’t know it’s goin’ to happen.”

She begrudgingly knows that, but still, it doesn’t make the reality any less bitter to swallow.

“For what it’s worth,” Lauretta continues, “I do think you ought to keep takin’ pictures. But only ‘cause you want to, not because you’re expectin’ your life to change from it.”

Her lips twitch upwards morosely, “Got to keep taking pictures and be your biographer, huh?”

Lauretta’s beaming smile returns, followed by a quick and short guffaw. “Hey, hey, hey, if you wanna follow me around when I get famous, I ain’t gonna complain!” She waggles her brows, “Sure there’ll be plenty of photo ops in that festival your bro keeps mentionin’. If anythin’, you might get somethin’ nice to frame, eh? What was it called? Marty—”

“Martyrs’ Festival.”

“Yeah, that! What’s the deal with it? What’s it about?”

The memory of the last time she experienced the festival meanders in her head. It was bright. And loud.  _ Very  _ loud considering the city spent multiple nights setting off a whole variety of fireworks. Though she thinks she read in the newspaper that there’ll be no fireworks this year— something to do with too many veterans not reacting well to loud noises anymore.

“It’s a week-long celebration,” she says, voice becoming wistful as she trudges through more memories, “In preparation everyone makes their own lanterns, either made of glass or paper. They’re meant to represent the souls who have died protecting Asnain. The festival itself is meant to be an anniversary of a civil war that occurred several centuries ago when Asnain became independent from Chiaya. I imagine this year most people will be celebrating it as an end to the war with Utreau, rather than Chiaya.

“The second day is meant to be a private celebration among family members, then the rest of the week can be enjoyed any way you like. Most people return to being jovial and loud in the city streets.”

Lauretta responds with an  _ ‘ooo’  _ and turns to now lay on her stomach. “Yeah? And how about the most important stuff— like the food?”

“There’ll be vendors at every corner. I had the same blueberry cobbler with cream every year for quite some time.” Her jaw tenses as her lips into a frown. “...I heard that the man who was in charge of that stall has since moved due to his wife dying in the war.”

To dispel the sudden awkward silence that occurs, she decides to relay a well known legend associated with the festival.

“Now, I don’t know if this was something that actually occurred, but they say when the soldiers were returning home to Lullin this grand blizzard struck them. The land was awash in an impenetrable blanket of snow. And, well, naturally they were already exhausted, and visibility was low. They were losing hope but... _ somehow  _ they managed to see a white rabbit in the midst of everything. To make a long story short, the rabbit leads the soldiers back home, and generally during the festival men and boys wear white suits and headbands to represent a rabbit.”

She always clears her throat when she gets to this part, “Rabbits are a symbol of fertility. This festival is also associated with couples having, um, amorous nights with one another, to honour those who have fallen by creating a new generation of Asnainians.”

There’s another festival that occurs months later, appropriately titled The Elders’ Jubilee. During that week, people honour their elders by cooking them dinners and giving them gifts, among other things. While the Martyrs’ Festival is associated with commemorating the dead and creating new life— children who will grow up to create more art and beauty in the name of Acadia— The Elders’ Jubilee celebrates those who have spent their lives… well, creating art and beauty in the name of Acadia. It all fits together quite nicely.

A growing series of snickering breaks Frea out of her thoughts of connecting celebrations. Lauretta’s shoulders shake as her mirth grows, and when her barely stifled laughter erupts she sounds more like a braying donkey. She covers her mouth as soon as it happens, though it does little to stop her noises.

“S-So… so…” She giggles further, in a sort of hysterics, apparently needing to force the words out after a moment, “Pfft… So people… people fuck like rabbits then? PPff—hahaha!”

She’s loud enough to wake Diana, who practically jumps off Frea— who in turns forces out an  _ oof  _ at the sudden movement— and the dog excitedly begins sniffing and licking near Lauretta’s face to see what all the fuss is about. 

Frea rolls her eyes in exasperation, though it’s with a smile. “Must you be so crass? There’s a reason I said that rabbits are a symbol of fertility.”

Slapping the ground, Lauretta is eventually able to recompose herself, scratching Diana’s nose while doing so, her face a beet red. “Suddenly I’m  _ much _ more interested in this festival.” She snorts ungracefully, “And here I thought you southerners were a buncha prudes, but clearly y’all like babymakin’ as much as the rest of us.”

While Lauretta busies herself with cooing at Diana, Frea… feels something snowballing in the pit of her stomach. She blinks, adrenaline rising, and while she continues to breathe normally it becomes a conscious effort to keep it that way. 

Her brain starts to fire out negative thoughts like a machine gun. This is— no, this is far too familiar a feeling and… and what’s happening here?

Frea wrestles with a momentary burst of irritation that assaults her senses, something sickening unfurling in her gut and she  _ hates  _ it. She’s not supposed to feel this way anymore. Why now? Why here? She’s not even thinking about  _ him!  _ It becomes mixed with something else that causes her heart to pound faster and quicker—  _ fear.  _

She blinks, and she sees that infernal book that has that name of available bachelors.

She blinks again, and she sees herself cradling a crying infant. So hopelessly exhausted, and so hopelessly lacking any authority of her own body.

She swallows down a sudden bitterness, the physical manifestation of her ire she assumes, and—  _ and— _

“I don’t want children.”

_ I don’t want to give mother an heir. _

Like a flock of doves scared by the scream of a hawk, like autumn leaves driven before the wind, the silent panic and irritation disperses under another blink. A blankness replaces it as everything in her being calms, and then she feels something else— a realization. The paths of her unknown future lay before her, as always, like an impossible maze. But this time is different. One path begins to shine as if it were made of the rays of the sun itself and the others paths melts away like so much black ice.

She pauses, glancing at Lauretta, who looks at her with a single raised brow. Diana is no longer here, presumably having lost interest and gone away somewhere else. 

“Yeah? Well, no one said you had to  _ actually  _ make a baby when doin’ the babymakin’. I might wanna get lucky with a man but I ain’t gonna be knockin’ myself up either, heh.” She nonchalantly. Almost  _ too  _ nonchalantly, which in turn tells Frea that her friend was very much aware of what just occurred in those quick few seconds.

Then, she lowers her voice to a whisper, checking over her shoulder as if looking for any eavesdroppers in the garden.

“Your ma is a real piece of work. So I don’t blame ya.”

Not waiting for her response, Lauretta then sits up, her jovial expression and tone returning just as quickly as it vanished.

“Now, there’s one thing I’ve been thinkin’ about recently. We should make a bucket list! I know you’re kinda stuck here until you get your new legs, but a good ol’ fashioned bucket list would help get that motivation goin’, yeah?” She starts counting on her fingers, “So we got the festival to look forward to. Then we got a nice train ride. Campin’? Yeah let’s add campin’. How about horseridin’? I guess that goes with campin’. Now, this is a lil’ selfish of me, but I always wanted to go to that one market you got in the Nobles’ district. Sounds real fancy. Oh, maybe I can take Aidan there...”

Frea remains silent, needing time to fully digest her thoughts and feelings. She feels astonishment mixed in now, and she begins to just… ponder.

Turns out finding out a great deal about yourself in such a short amount of time leaves one just a little bit at a loss for words.

* * *

The nightmare she experiences that evening is new.

For one thing, she’s  _ running. _

She’s still in that eternal darkness, and every time her feet—  _ feet!!—  _ hit what appears to be ground, it hits it hard. The impact sends shockwaves to her brain and her rapid steps echo throughout the nothingness. Her lungs heave like the air is acidic and every part of her feels like it would break if she didn't stop.

But Frea does not stop.

In the distance there is a figure she can barely discern. Basked in darkness, she cannot tell who it is, and yet she reaches out for them. She does not get any closer to the figure, no matter how fast or far she runs. She attempts to call out—

_ Crack. _

Suddenly, there is no sound. Not a footstep, not a heartbeat. She feels… lighter now.

Like she’s missing a limb. Or two.

And with a blink, she’s laying on the floor, and—  _ ah—  _ now this is familiar. She feels the blood rushing through her legs, exiting through what’s left just below the knees. She doesn’t need to look behind her to see the splattering of flesh and bone.

She’s grown… numb towards the image of her legs in tatters.

But there is something else, a fire within her veins that still burns bright. And— a figure she feels as though she needs to reach, and she crawls. Her fingernails crack and rip the more she thrashes on the ground. There’s not even a goddamn thing to grip on, and yet her hands become scratched and worn. 

She does not get any closer to the figure.

Invisible jagged rocks tear at her skin the more she desperately crawls, but no matter how much her skin becomes ripped apart, she doesn’t scream. She’s unable to— her mouth remains shut, not even panting any longer. And for a brief, beautiful second, it seems like she’s getting closer, if only by a mere centimeter.

And that’s when the hands violently grab her.

Frea does not know what happens next, because she wakes up.

Immediately upon doing so, she feels trapped in sweltering heat and hard of breath. Taking a page out of Esme’s book now, is she? She would formulate a sarcastic thought directed at herself, but all she manages is to gasp like a fish out of water as she attempts to recover from the rough awakening. She feels a slight cramp form, and she thinks she’s begun a new cycle of menstruation. It makes her profoundly uncomfortable, and with her throat mimicking a barren desert she decides she has a good enough excuse to get out of bed. If anything, going to get a drink will at least keep her occupied for the moment. It’s certainly more productive than just lying there, something she does every time she is awoken from a foul dream.

When she finishes her breathing exercises, and takes a good long moment to stare at the photos on her ceiling, there’s a well-known ache in her stumps, and she flicks her eyes where the pill bottle usually is, but it is absent. Lauretta always takes it with her when she leaves— she had said something about not wanting her to get  _ too  _ reliant on them. She may not have said it outright, but Frea knows she’s worried about her getting addicted to pain medication.

Which is its own horrifying prospect.

Fumbling around on the bed, Frea reaches forward to get her chair closer. Embarrassingly enough, she only recently realized there’s a lock on the wheel that is used to prevent the chair from moving. She locks it after moving it parallel to the bed, and she gets the transfer board that’s propped against the wall next to her. Apparently she’s not supposed to do bed to chair transfers by herself— Lauretta made sure to drill that into her. Despite the fact she’s done this before.

_ “This whole shebang is new. No one thought we’d need wheelchairs so much before the war y’know,”  _ Lauretta had said,  _ “New rules are bein’ made constantly! And that includes not gettin’ outta bed by yourself!” _

But, well, she’s thirsty, and she… she  _ has  _ to be able to do things on her own every now and then.

She positions the thin wooden board firmly on the chair and beneath her rear, and grabs a hold of the chair’s armrests. Using her arms to propel herself, she manages to avoid dragging herself across the board, and lands on the seat. Then she has to orientate herself so that she’s properly sitting on it.

Frea sighs, but there’s triumph in it, and she smiles. Her arms have certainly become stronger, no longer  _ ‘spindly noodle arms,’  _ as Lauretta put it.

The success of the transfer is… comfortable. A warmth blooms within her, and while her continuing nightmares still weigh on her shoulders, it feels slightly,  _ juuuust  _ slightly that it has grown lighter.

She moves towards the door, opening it with a slight creak. Maybe she’s feeling a bit of a high right now and putting more weight onto her little accomplishment of getting onto her chair, but she chooses to consider it a bigger deal than it actually is, because it feels  _ good,  _ dammit. She damn well deserves to bask in her victory for the time being, no matter how inconsequential.

It is that reason that she becomes... momentarily blind. Or at least, not very aware of her surroundings.

Because she doesn’t notice a certain green eyed, blond haired man until she almost bumps into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like how much things have been ~revealed~ about some of the side cast here. I hope it gives them extra depth. Everyone out there with so much emotional baggage lmao.
> 
> Let’s say that Marcus and Nathaniel airing out their laundry and both being comforted in a similar manner in that someone assures them they’re not actually hated was, uh, totally intentional because they’re meant to be foils to one another. Nathaniel is a societal outcast because he doesn't meet certain criterias of what Asnain considers a ~good man~, mainly due to him being neurodivergent and (as just revealed in this chapter) his sexuality. But despite that, he finds freedom in that because he can sneak out and generally do what he wants without being too shackled by society’s expectations, because no one expects anything out of him, but it is because he is “invisible” that he feels troubled.
> 
> Meanwhile Marcus militantly adheres to the gender roles given to him, and despite following the rules expected of him and doing what a good man must, he’s currently going through an identity crisis and feels trapped ‘cause shit ain’t going the way society told him it would. He’s not getting the fairytale romance the books promised him. Despite their differences, they’re both dealing with similar conflicts revolving around questions of self-worth (as are Frea and Aidan. Dang, Asnainian society sure sucks, doesn’t it? Lol).
> 
> Also, I feel like it would be pretty inevitable for both matriarchy and patriarchy to emphasize pregnancy/birth as the epitome of womanhood, it’s just that matriarchy would elevate women to this messiah-like status cause they can make mini humans. But then a familiar conflict would still arise: What about the women who don’t want to have children? Though admittedly me adding this is purely self-indulgent cause A: I’m a staunchly childfree woman and B: I hate the trope that two characters have to have babies as a sign of their ~love~ for one another and that’s the only way they can have a happy ending at the end of a story. That’s bullshit. So yeah, you can bet your ass I’m gonna make most of my main characters childfree because it’s my story and I like to pander to myself. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ And besides, I also find it just fits with the overarching theme of Frea finding control in her life and body.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent the last two months hating the last chapter, hopefully this one makes up for it.
> 
> Also some of you might recognize two characters who make a brief appearance. It's just a fanservice cameo, I guess. They're not gonna show up again.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Feel free to let me know of any mistakes so I can correct it.

Frea thinks her heart is going to leap out of her throat.

As she desperately attempts to rummage through the wreckage that is her head, a ringing forms in her ears as she grips the armrests so hard her hands begin to shake. Something foul churns in her stomach as her gaze lingers on those bright green eyes that seem to shimmer with both anxiety and anticipation. She utters something incomprehensible when she looks down his face, seeing those plump lips slightly parted, and then she is assaulted with visions of him suckling her finger.

“G-Gah…” It is a throaty, soft grunt that makes her grit her teeth violently. Her beating heart only becomes quicker and more unpredictable when her thoughts begin to jump to and fro past memories, his tears, his bruised belt after she had belted him, the train ride back home, the ferocious pain in her legs, the landmine, it’s _his fault, his fault, hisfaulthisfaulthisfault—_

A look of worry washes over his expression and she— she fucking _hates_ it. The effect it has on her is sickening and she thinks she might hurl, but she continues staring at him. _Has he always been this tall?_ She stupidly ponders, then she quickly realizes that he had almost always been hunching his shoulders or back whenever he was near her. _Now,_ he… he has the gall to look more _confident_. His cheeks are fuller. His eyes are brighter. There is more energy within him than she ever thought possible.

Her body trembles, Aidan takes a tentative step forward. He signs something though she does not read it.

A voice she was expecting to hear weasels itself into her head, speaking disgusting words she has heard before.

_You should slap him._

_You should remind him where he belongs. Remind everyone._

Frea begins to see only red.

Oh, whatever the hell he’s been doing he’s _clearly_ been enjoying himself. So tall, so healthy. Even his skin seems home to less imperfections somehow. Having the time of his fucking life while she still can’t walk, suffering each night from horrid nightmares _he_ caused. How dare he—

With a sharp gasp, she shakes her head, slapping Aidan’s hands away when he reaches forward. _No!_ Her voice screams at her, something she might have said out loud as Aidan takes a step backwards. Her breathing becomes uneven and she sees everyone’s faces when she closes her eyes.

Esme, Lauretta, Marcus, Nathaniel, _Acadia—_

She can’t disappoint them _again._

These— These painful memories, they're just the same as nightmares. They vanish when she’s awake, when she's really right _here_ in the present moment. She and it are separate. Her— _their—_ misery, her memories of everything that’s happened between them, it like glass shards that slice open her skin. She’s put some of them down, but there are still shards that remain pricked in her body.

It’s high time she begins taking those out.

Frea’s body moves on its own, perhaps on instinct, fueled by one final image she sees of Esme. She doesn’t even need to think of her next action, she simply does it.

It’s rough, and it’s even a bit painful, but she tumbles out of her chair and lands into the palm of her hands and onto her knees. With a resounding thud that rattles her ears— _ow—_ she slams her forehead onto the varnished wooden floor.

“I— I am sorry…!” She croaks out, eyes tightly shut as she is fully unable to even look at him now. If she did, she knows a torrent of her previous thoughts would come rushing forth. Aidan is not _safe_ with her. Frea understands why this sort of groveling is a favourite among Asnainian nobles— the humiliation of the position completely eviscerates whatever pride she has left, and a heaviness settles onto her chest that threatens to suffocate her.

But it is something that must be done. More is needed to be said.

“My… My behaviour against you has been a-abhorrent… A-And nothing could have ever justified what I’ve done.” She breathes in heavily, throat still parched, and her fists clench against the floor. The words do indeed feel like shards of glass slowly being pried out of her, “If you.. If you do not wish to forgive me I w-would understand… If you wish to leave I am sure I can probably arrange something—”

Firm yet gentle hands grasps her shoulders, forcing her to sit upwards and the words die in her throat. Aidan’s eyes speak of nothing but concern, brows furrowed and he gnaws on his lower lip before swallowing hard.

_ <Master, please don’t say that.> _

Something… _tingles_ upwards her spine when he calls her _Master,_ and it makes her skin crawl. Quickly, she averts her gaze, dangerous thoughts beginning to simmer back to the surface. The ensuing guilt luckily drowns them out.

Frea’s tremulous voice squeaks, though nothing comes out. Her mind begins to swim and she struggles to hold onto a single thought as two vastly different desires fight for dominance.

Aidan moves so that he is back in front of her.

_ <Master, are you hurt? Do you need me to carry you to bed?> _

Logic blissfully returns to her, if only for a moment. Right. The last time she fell out of something in front of him it was her bed, and the excruciating pain she had felt was… truly indescribable. It still makes her shiver whenever she thinks of it.

Tiredly, she shakes her head. She had been careful to land on her knees and hands, and no pressure was put onto her stumps. Still, it was certainly uncomfortable slipping off her chair.

The tension in the air remains stifling, and she does not look him in the eyes. Instead, her stare is fixated on his hands. She wants to say more. She _needs_ to say more. But she hadn’t considered in depth what she would say to him because she didn’t take into account actually seeing him again so soon. _Too_ soon. The scars of everything feel too fresh.

“I am sorry,” she mumbles, “I am sorry…”

Perhaps she should reiterate that if he wanted to leave she would let him, though then more sense slowly begins to fill her head. He would go _where,_ exactly? What the fuck can _she_ do anyway? What a stupid thing to say. Pathetic.

Her chin begins to tremble. She’s not ready for this. She’s not ready to see him again. She should have never gotten out of the bed.

Aidan’s hands move, though it is not signing. Frea dully watches him dig into his pockets to reveal a… ribbon? He puts it around his wrists and hands and when she sees a distinctive _X_ her lips part.

Despite herself, her eyes flick upwards only to see him smile softly, though his eyes remain worried. She looks back down at the Cat’s Cradle and it’s clear he wants her to take the ribbon to make another shape with it.

Ah… this is… unfair…

A rush of emotion surges forth and she claps a hand over her mouth in a desperate attempt to keep herself together. No tears stream down her eyes, thankfully. She roughly clears her throat when she mulls over the time she taught him this game. A memory. A… _good_ memory.

Hesitantly, her shaking hands go closer to his, but with a heavy inhale on her part she puts her hands back onto her lap.

She’s not ready for _her_ to touch _him,_ either. Even in this manner.

“Sorry,” she says once more, “I can’t do this… yet… I need… I need to remind myself of how to play this game again…” She attempts a weak smile, though she is unsure if she is successful. She does not look at his face again though with the way his hands drop on his own lap, it is evident he is disappointed.

Aidan returns the ribbon to his pocket and he signs again. _ <Master, are you alright?> _

She thinks she would scoff if she were remotely in the right state of mind, but instead when she feels another tingle up her spine she practically hisses out her next words.

“Don’t call me that,” realizing how harsh she sounds, she amends it by speaking more softly, “...I’m not your Master. I never have been.”

Clearly, that isn’t the right thing to say.

Aidan’s breath hitches, and he assumes the familiar dismal looking posture of hunching his shoulders together. The action forces her to look at his face, and the sheer… _anguish_ in his eyes makes her mind screech to a halt.

He edges closer like a scolded dog begging for forgiveness, _ <Master, please, what did I do wrong?> _

Frea has to actively stop a grimace forming on her expression. Her apology might have needed a lot of work, but she isn’t about to allow themselves to wallow when it comes to _this._

“Nothing. I just—You should call me—” She coughs awkwardly when she attempts to think of an appropriate way to deal with this utterly exhausting conversation, “...You can call me whatever you like.”

Yes, that’ll do for now. It wasn’t an order. Just… the first step of separating herself from the title. Maybe.

Aidan is obviously endlessly confused with how he blinks at her, and Frea decides she should further explain herself. Though before she could, he signs hesitantly.

_ <...I want to call you Master.> _

Jaw tensing, she comes to the very apparent conclusion that he just isn’t _getting_ it. Did Esme and the others not teach him _anything?_ Or was she the fool to think he could ever sever himself of such a mindset, especially when it came to her? It’s literally only been days since she last saw him and she quickly finds herself with the well-acquainted sensation of ire and frustration bubbling within her, all directed to herself.

She’s not quite sure what she expected for when they met again. She isn’t sure she expected anything in the first place. However she is certain this entire exchange can be considered an unmitigated disaster.

At first, she is uncertain of where to go from here, and whether anything between is remotely salvageable. She is a _mess._ Acadia, they both are. As it stands, they are both poisonous to one another…

But she doesn’t want that.

With ever increasing clarity in her mind, she thinks about herself. _Chipped, but repairable,_ she had once thought. The same can happen here, and then she begins to ruminate on severing herself from being his tyrannical Master and she thinks, thinks, and _thinks._

_Ah._

There are many differences between a servant and a slave. And she focuses on a fairly big one.

_Aaah—!!_

And again, she thinks. The words reverberate against the confines of her skull. Words she had probably heard long, long ago during a forgotten sermon.

_The best apology is changed behaviour._

With that, she feels herself renewed with fervent energy and motivation.

“Y-You!” She practically shouts, making his back straighten considerably, complete bewilderment etched onto his features, “You need to get _paid!_ How long has it been? Oh goodness your paycheque is long overdue. I’ll… I’ll need to calculate how much you are owed...”

There is not a chance that mother would take a cent out of the Valentine vaults to pay him. Luckily, she believes the allowance she had saved over the years should be sufficient for now. Finite, but enough until she can think of something else. Certainly better than her initial idea of simply sending him away to Acadia knows where.

And while she is at it, she believes it prudent to type up an actual contract of employment. It'll be unofficial but at least to her, it’ll be something that feels more concrete. Tangible. Giving him… the rights as a worker that is equally long overdue to him.

It feels like… the first step in the right direction. It’s _reinvigorating._

Not only that, but she is acutely aware of needing to properly explain things to him in depth. Perhaps Esme can do that better than she ever could. Frea knows that the entire time she would be wrestling with her tumultuous emotions constantly if she were to even attempt doing it by herself… It is… It is not weak to ask for help, she finally realizes that now.

Though that will not happen tonight. Not when a grumble forces them both to look upwards near the top of the stairs.

“God, you’re loud.”

Nathaniel looks down upon them with a tight expression. His eyes glance between the two of them, though whenever his gaze lands on her Frea swears she can practically feel the distaste. Right, she supposes she’s yet to give him a proper apology, though his apparent displeasure feels more akin to… a child who is having their favourite toy taken away from them. There is a spark of impatience whenever he looks at Aidan, his hands rubbing together in quick spurts. 

Her brows furrow when she notices him wearing shoes and a jacket, and with him constantly briefly taking a gander at Aidan… wait a minute…

“...Are you going somewhere?” Frea asks, she still faces her brother, though to her she is asking both of them. Her tone is more surprised than questioning. When was the last time Nathaniel left the house? And seemingly _without_ the need of a servant or two?

“No, of course not. You ruined my schedule,” Nathaniel retorts quickly, as if his answer doesn’t just give her more questions. He gives Aidan one final side-glance, a silent conversation seeming passing over them since Aidan nods for reasons unknown, “You woke me up. You look like a miser, Frey-Frey. I read in a book that they have wild bursts of delirium.”

His strange insult aside, Frea drills him further.

“But you’re wearing shoes. You never liked wearing shoes—”

“I’m going to bed.” He turns on his heel and skulks off back to his room, but before adding a final quip. “You’re so weird. I don’t get you at all.”

Frea half expects him to slam the door in derision but predictably closes it silently. Daintily, even. She then clears her throat awkwardly when she sees two servants peek their head curiously from around the corner. Perhaps she really _was_ too loud. Regardless, she probably isn’t going to get her drink… and she might as well spend the rest of the evening in bed. She’s suddenly feeling _very_ tired.

Whatever questions she needs answering can wait.

She nods at the servants. “It’s alright. I just… fell. You may return to your quarters. I can get back onto the chair just fine.” Clearly, the servants are just haggard as she is, because they leave with no questions asked.

Awkwardly, and unsuccessfully, she attempts to climb back on her wheelchair. She momentarily forgets about the brakes, and the moment the chair begins moving backwards when she grabs onto the armrests in a vain attempt to lift herself, Aidan stands and walks behind the seat to keep it in place.

It must be the shame that prevents her from directly looking at him.

Using the upper body strength she has mustered during the time she’s been constrained to this chair, she manages to lift herself properly. It’s a thankfully quick affair, and when she feels a slight heat bloom across her cheeks— from what… she isn’t quite sure— she murmurs softly.

“...Thank you. I will be going to bed. We should talk more another time. Good night.”

She cannot vocalize his name, nor does she look at him when she wheels away.

Despite that, there is still warmth. Though this time it swims in her chest. She did something right, she thinks. Or at least, she’s on the path of getting there eventually. Briefly, she wonders if Acadia is truly real, whether she would be smiling at her.

Soon she’s welcomed back into the comfort of her bedsheets. It’s good Nathaniel interrupted them. Frea thinks she could use the extra time to actually think properly with how to deal with everything. More time to properly prepare and center her emotions.

And while her mind is in this blissful yet this rare moment of clarity, she smiles to herself. When she thinks of Aidan, it is merely… him. There is no underlying irritation nor is there indecent vulgarities. Just him, probably utterly bewildered with what just occurred. She supposes he could use an apology for that, too. Above all, there is another thought, blooming like the first flower in spring. Something that can easily wilt with the weeds that have not yet been uprooted— _yet!—_ but sturdy all the same.

Perhaps there is something between them that is worth saving.

* * *

Aidan is a little embarrassed that his heart accelerates a little every time a small bird swoops down in front of him. It kind of reminds him of a yo-yo. Up, down, up, down. His eyes quickly become overwhelmed— there’s just so many of them that fly and hop in his vision only to disappear into leaves and bushes. His gaze lands on a bird of jet-black plumage and beak of polished amber that vanishes between tall grass. Then he sees a bird with striking red and white spots on its feathers that moves its head side to side like it is clockwork. Every turn is rapid, almost too fast to see. It’s small too, no bigger than an orange and just as round. After singing a few notes it spreads its wings and in a flurry of red and white it ascends to a higher branch and out of view.

They are all different and varied, though there is one thing that they all share in common: They all reside in a large enclosure made of wood and mesh, preventing them from actually escaping.

The aisles of the aviary is… he thinks Marcus used the term ‘tropical.’ Tall ferns and exotic looking trees wave their fronds above them; the sunlight shines down them like stars in the high arches overhead; a fountain plays amid the full blown blossoms of the lotus, its heavy scent filling the air with its sickly sweet aroma.

_“These would never survive in the Asnainian environment,”_ he thinks he heard Marcus say when they entered. Aidan wasn’t really paying attention at first since his mind continues to linger over the befuddling meeting he had with Master last night. Did he do something wrong? Did he not? All he knows is that there is still a prickling sensation assailing his skin, and his heart still beats quickly.

He doesn’t even remember what he was doing before he was brought to the aviary.

Should he have gone in her room with her? Was she expecting him to do something more? Cat’s Cradle seemed to have been successful in calming her, so why did she not play the game with him? What was that about him calling her what he wants?

_“I am sorry.”_

...The image of her pressing her head to the floor makes him shudder. He didn’t like it when Esme did it, and he didn’t like it when she did it.

Aidan’s heart continues to thud, moreso when another bird comes near him, and he thinks the world is beginning to spin around him. He’s so, _so_ lost and confused, and falters and twitches with each step though… though… though he’s _happy._ He finally recognizes that feeling but now he becomes more dazed. 

He hears Lauretta’s voice titter ahead of him, next to Marcus, and he grabs onto that to regain some focus.

“You got a whole mini zoo in here! Do all nobles have this much shit in their backyard?” Lauretta practically scoffs. She looks up and down at the overarching trees and bushes, wrinkling her nose every time a bird swoops down almost too closely. “You said these were all from the same place?”

Beside her, Marcus chuckles. He outstretches his hand and two birds perch themselves on his palm and peck at some of the seeds he holds out. 

“Most of the birds here are from the Southern Isles, Lady Elader. I find that’s where the most interesting fowls are from. So varied and colourful— there’s really never a dull moment!” Marcus replies happily, and Aidan can see softness in his eyes when he looks at the birds still resting on his hand. A reverence, almost. 

“These two are appropriately called swoopers. They like to pester people, and they mostly eat insects. They make the most adorable ‘wi-wi-wi’ noise, hehe. I hear they are often used for races and gambling in the Isles. I’ve always wanted to visit, but for now I’ll have to make due with the aviary. I’ve even managed to install a heating system to mimic the environment as close as I’m able!”

The birds trill, sweetly high, the chorus as playful as the animals themselves. Aidan listens to the melody— rising, swooping, resting, just as birds do. It’s a bit chaotic with so many songs being played at once— though he isn’t sure if the chaos is mostly from his own thoughts that still confuses him— and yet at the same time he can only find it as calming. He can see why Marcus apparently spends much of his time in the aviary.

Aidan outstretches his hand, palm open, and while he stays as still as he’s able for several seconds no birds come to him.

He doesn’t realize he has a pout on his face until he hears a snicker.

“You have to have some food for them, silly,” Marcus tuts, “The only way to get an animal’s trust is through their stomach!”

A small handful of seeds is given to Aidan, and almost immediately when he spreads out his arm he feels a slight pinch of small talons on the side of his palm. Interestingly, other than that it doesn’t feel like there’s anything on his hand, the bird weighs that little, apparently.

It’s a bright blue one, and a bit plump. Aidan wonders if it’s mostly just feathers.

But it pecks at the seeds and he can feel himself begin to become more excited at the mere sight of it. Soon, he hears Marcus’ booming voice.

“Ah, that’s a Ma’hama. They’re symbols of good luck! I think they’re named after one of the gods the Islanders worship.”

Satisfied with its food, the bird leaves, and the three of them walk further into the aviary. Aidan finds himself in a constant state of perplexity when his eyes never seem to land on the same bird twice. It’s _always_ something different and he wonders how such small islands— they looked really small on the map Master showed him ages ago— could have so many animals.

“Luck, eh?” Lauretta says, “Could have used these suckers when I was in med school. Would have made the studyin’ a whole lotta easier. Hell, with luck, I don’t even need to study! I could procrastinate all day, hell yeah.”

A small bird skitters in front of them, making Aidan’s eyes fall near their feet. He takes special note of Marcus’ foot going over an exposed tree root, only for him to move his foot back so that it is hooked under the root in question. He stumbles, and is quickly supported by Lauretta. He thanks her graciously, and verbosely, and eventually gets back on the topic at hand.

“Oh, I simply can’t imagine you putting something so important off. You seem so goal-focused, Lady Elader. Not to mention someone with such… fast reflexes.”

Aidan can’t quite pinpoint it, but there’s something in the way Marcus says it that seems a bit different. Maybe it has something to do with how he seems to flutter his eyelashes.

A curiosity begins to bloom in Aidan, and he continues listening as he walks behind the two of them. Occasionally he’ll flick his eyes to see more birds, all seeming more outlandish than the one before. There’s one with skinny, tall legs standing in the water. It’s bright pink plumage and bent beak makes him stare at it longer than the others, and he quickly decides that it’s his favourite.

“Pshaw,” Lauretta makes a good-natured snort and waves her hand at Marcus, “Y’know, I would procrastinate so much at school. Like I would just throw away my dishes and buy new ones ‘cause I didn’t want to clean ‘em.”

Her voice ends in a snicker, and Marcus blinks. “Oh... Oh my. Isn’t that just more effort?” He questions softly before clearing his throat and replacing his look of bemusement with a bright smile. “Sounds as though your dorm could have used the touch of a man. You wouldn’t need to trouble yourself with procrastination when it came to dishes then, hehe.”

“Eh, I guess.” She shrugs. “I guess it would have taken a load off. My papaw never left dirty dishes in the sink and… Yeah, I never really thought about how nice it is to come home with everythin’ clean. That _would_ have made me less of a lazy ass actually, hah! And when my mamaw came home from the farm and sat in her favourite chair papaw always knelt in front of her and massaged her feet. S’nice.”

That appears to get Marcus’ attention as his eyes gleam with excitement, and he claps his hands together as he leans forward. “Indeed! I’m so glad you understand! A woman goes out to work, and her support will motivate the man to dutifully keep the home clean. And a clean home will motivate the woman to continue to work. No procrastination because everyone is supported!” He places his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest proudly.

He kind of reminds Aidan of a bird, interestingly enough.

“It’s what Acadia preaches. A balance as old as time. Surely you can agree that it’s so ludicrous that there are men who do not believe that it is a balance that works!”

For a split-second, Lauretta glances at Aidan, and her smile falters.

“Aw, shucks… You talkin’ about men wanting to go to university ‘n other stuff? S’is not all bad if fellas went to uni, I think. Like, wouldn’t you wanna study birds? What’cha call that… Ornithology?”

Marcus’ own smile twitches downwards, though it is more subtle. “Ah, why would I become cumbersome towards my own family by pursuing something that would be better left to someone else? It’s a fool’s errand. A— A man is much better suited supporting his wife. Being the one to massage my wife’s feet after her long day would be endlessly more rewarding, I’m sure. University is an absurd notion for a man. I’m— We’re not intellectual enough for it.”

Aidan instantly picks up upon the strain the sneaks into his voice. _Oh._ He’s heard this type of tone before. The hidden desire behind it— he’s heard sometimes when he men in the brothel spoke to one another. When they spoke of one day leaving Utreau. Or of living a life where they were not prostitutes. Impossible, feeble dreams.

It was _longing_ in their voices. Jealousy, even. And then they’d just as feebly attempt to convince themselves that what they have is _fine._

Aidan believes he is beginning to see a clearer picture. Lauretta turns, a tense uncharacteristic hardness on her features. “Oi, don’t let someone tell you what you can and can’t do, alright? Even when it comes to Frea,” she pauses, _“Especially_ when it comes to Frea.” She says sturdily.

He frowns slightly, glancing towards Marcus, who in turn clenches his hands. His eye twitches and he sharply turns his head. “...My apologies, clearly I am aggravating you. Excuse me.” He says stiffly, turning his heel and walking off before either Lauretta or Aidan can formulate much of a reaction or response.

“Uh,” Lauretta starts, watching him leave, “Uh, yeah… Guess I fucked that one up. Was that rude? I can never tell when it comes to Southerners, geez.”

Watching his retreating back before he disappears from the tree branches and bushes, Aidan soon hears the door of the aviary opening and closing. He turns towards Lauretta, giving a reassuring smile and signs. _ <Don’t worry, I’ll go talk to him.> _ It is not even something he needs to think of seriously. Seeking Marcus out feels natural, even though he may not know him as well as his other siblings.

But Aidan’s curiosity drives him to do it, anyway.

Lauretta scratches her head and sighs, “Sure, I guess. I’ll just hang out here then. Come back soon alright? I might as well give you a check-up while I’m here.”

He nods, and then seeks out Marcus.

* * *

Aidan finds Master’s brother leaning against a tree, hugging his knees. Diana is with him, laying on her side, chest rising slowly and calmly as she breathes. When Aidan approaches him and sits down next to him, Marcus speaks wryly.

“That wasn’t very elegant of me, was it?”

No, he supposes it wasn’t. But Aidan will neither confirm nor deny it. He knows well enough at this point that the man wants another ear to simply listen to him. The men in the brothel sometimes liked to use him for that, probably because he can’t speak. He was simply there, and that was enough. So he’ll simply listen for now.

And Marcus does indeed talk.

He relays the hopelessly familiar feeling of not doing things right. He especially grabs Aidan’s interest when he mentions having this exact moment with Master just days ago and apparently crying about it. 

“Frey-Frey and now Lau— Lady Elader. Neither of them understand, not truly. I cannot— I cannot simply turn a switch and stop thinking the way I do. I had felt such a reprieve when I spoke with Frey-Frey but it did not last… it never lasts… Stupid theasarus… Everytime I return to thinking I am doing something wrong without fail...”

His voice becomes a series of mumbles, and while in the past Aidan doesn’t think he’d have done anything, now he doesn’t need to really ruminate over his next actions. He reaches forward and lightly pats the taller man on the shoulder with a small smile, using his free hand to sign.

_ <I feel like I’m not doing things right sometimes, too.> _

Marcus grins ruefully. “I still feel as though I need a book to fully discern your signing, but at the same time I think I understand you just fine and dandy. Perhaps it’s because we’re both men. Kindred spirits, in a way. Frey-Frey and Lady Elader simply cannot fathom a man’s woes, hmm? They... just do not know what it is like.” He sighs, “But then I feel bad about saying that. It’s rude, probably. They say women have it more difficult having to provide.”

The broad leafed shrubbery rustle softly with the wind that passes over them, it’s a bit cold like it usually is, a far cry from the heated aviary. Marcus wraps himself tightly on his long silky coat that is reminiscent of Diana’s furs. Fallen leaves scud over the ground and take small flights into the air.

“There is something about these windy days that blow the cobwebs right out of my head.” Marcus says, “But that’s only sometimes. I don’t feel that now. Instead I am just far too upset on far too many days now… I truly believed Lady Elader would like what I said. Women like that stuff, do they not? And they like clumsy men, too? Ahh… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore… And with Lady Elader? Why?”

Punching the bridge of his nose, he stands, making Aidan frown slightly.

“I’m just rambling pointlessly like I did with Frey-Frey. Apologies, I am sure you do not want me to trouble you further. I must go take Diana on her walk soon. Angelea’s mother is set to visit soon.” He says solemnly, and with a whistle and a pat on his leg, Diana stands to attention and follows him as he walks off. 

Aidan tilts his head in thought. 

Marcus is quite the theatrical man, Aidan muses. It makes him think. 

A picture is gradually becoming clearer. 

He doesn’t think he’s seen the _real_ Marcus yet. He isn’t sure if Marcus is even aware of himself, either. Aidan can relate. He feels the same at times, lately with increasing frequency. Who he is, where he stands with everyone, where he is going. He gets different signals and feelings from everyone. 

_“...I’m not your Master. I never have been.”_

Aidan picks at the grass.

* * *

“This is yours.”

Esme hands Aidan an envelope that’s quite thick, and it is adorned with the neatest handwriting he thinks he has ever seen. Master’s handwriting and it’s only his name written on it. It even smells a bit like her.

Lauretta makes a small noise. “Golly, I wish my paycheques were this thick.”

“This is multiple missed payments,” Esme replies, and there is a small sense of pride in her voice, “This completely slipped my mind. I need to give Frea my thanks. You deserve this, kid.”

The three of them sit on the floor of his room, a chessboard between him and Esme, though two do not play the game yet. Lauretta intermittently reads a book, a medical textbook from what he can infer, and writes notes every now and then. She chews something tough and thick, probably dry caramel.

He gingerly opens the envelope, looking at the money— it doesn’t quite feel real to have this in his hands— and looks back at Esme. 

_ <What should I do with this?> _

Her lips twitch upwards. “Anything you like. It’s yours. Buy yourself something nice, kid.”

_ <...Anything?> _

Lauretta interjects then.

“Uh-huh! Y’know speakin’ of goin’ shoppin’ and whatnot, I was writin’ a bucket list with Frea, and I made one for you, too. There’s a fancy market further in town we should visit sometime. Don’t hafta buy anythin’. We could just go window shoppin’, but if ya want somethin’ you can spoil yourself, heh.”

At the mention of Master, he thinks about how he hasn’t seen since last night and he grows slightly anxious. 

_ <How is she?> _ He signs, eyes looking at the money more intently when he finishes his question. He cannot remember whether he has ever been paid for anything. Not even selling his own body, the money always went elsewhere. And now here he is with an envelope full of it. From Master. 

His chest begins to feel warm. Ah. This is pride, he thinks. He is unsure if he is deserving, but Master thinks he is, so he will happily accept it and hold the envelope close to his chest.

Lauretta twirls her pencil between her fingers.

“Frea’s fine and dandy. She’s with the doc now, but I had to scoot away ‘cause her ma visited and that bitch creeps me out.”

“Don’t say that,” Esme’s brows crease when she turns to Lauretta.

“Awh, c’mon, I know you think the same.”

“Not in her own home, Elader.”

Lauretta pouts, sufficiently cowed at Esme using her last name. It makes Aidan grin, and the medic makes another comment.

“The doc’s gonna bring a prosthetist to check her out soon. That’s some good news,” she smirks, “Means she might be gettin’ some new feet. Esme and I are gonna help her through all that and then some so dont’cha worry about it.”

Aidan’s eyes in attention, lips parting slightly. Now _that_ is something he should prepare for and then some. He should make a feast! He should make sure the entirety of her home is spotless for when she is finally free to explore it without the need of assistance! He should… He should buy her a gift!!

_ <What is her favourite food?> _ How could he have gone this far without knowing that yet? He must fix that expeditiously! Whatever she may be feeling now he’ll alleviate through good food—!! 

_ <What should I buy her?> _He excitedly signs then, he has the money and the means now. Oh, to be the one to spoil someone else… How riveting!

Strangely enough, the two women don’t seem to share his overflowing excitement. Esme blinks at him, though she is still smiling. “I’ll need to ask about the food thing, but, ah, you know you don’t have to buy her anything—”

_ <But I want to.> _

She clears her throat, “Well yeah, you can do that. I’m not gonna force you to do whatever with your own hard earned money. But I’m trying to make sure you know that you can also just buy stuff for yourself, okay? You can… like things for yourself. It doesn’t have to always be for someone else, which is a great sentiment, don’t get me wrong— just… it’s alright to be selfish sometimes.” Her brows furrow for a moment, worry flickering in her eyes. “...You saying it’s not right for you to have things Frea just… really hit me, kid.”

Aidan looks down at the money, then looks back at Esme with a frown.

He’s already been selfish before. Very selfish. But this? It doesn’t quite click with him.

_ <But I want to buy her something.> _

He doesn’t understand why this is apparently a difficult concept to grasp, but the two women share an uneasy glane with one another. Lauretta soon shrugs.

“Your money. You can do anythin’ you want with it. Long as you give it a good think it ain’t a problem, yeah? And her favourite food is four cheese tuna casserole, by the way. She’s got a bit of an old woman’s tongue, heh.”

Initially her words don’t quite register, but he soon responds by nodding quickly, making _four cheese tuna casserole_ embedded into his mind. Then he begins setting up the chessboard pieces, asking Esme for a game with a wide smile.

She seems happy with him, though a sense of dissatisfaction still seems to linger around her.

* * *

Aidan has become well acquainted with the fact Nathaniel liked schedules. Order, he supposed. He’s noticed that the man preferred it when he visited on certain nights during the week. So when Master interrupted their plan to go out to town in the night he was clearly agitated, and the two of them scheduled for the next week to make things ‘fit,’ as Nathaniel put it.

He tries not to think about how he barely has seen Master this entire week. At the very least, he’s currently thoroughly distracted now that the two of them are zigzagging between multiple buildings. The two of them first skulked around a corner in the front garden and moved two large potted plants, and the marble tiling they were perched upon could be moved to reveal a hole beneath the fencing. The two of them crawled through it— the feeling of dirt apparently a bit of a nuisance for Nathaniel, but he says going out makes it worth it— and now they’re making their way through a series of alleyways. 

...It’s all been a very curious affair. Him, sneaking out of the estate he hasn’t left since he arrived there. He’s just… _going._ And he actually feels good about it! Because Nathaniel is leading him and he must be making him happy by coming with him! No one’s explicitly _told_ him he can’t go here… Oooh, he’s done this loophole a couple of times before, hasn’t he? Except for the first time, he feels none of the niggling anxiety and worry he’d have about the mere thought of potential punishment.

It was like ripples through the cobblestone floor, vibrating under his feet, up through his bones and resting as a dull rumbling in his chest. Anticipation and excitement, and not much else.

Truthfully, he’s very thankful to be given a moment of respite for not thinking about Master and the strangeness that seems to follow them, if only for the evening.

Darkness passes over the city like a velvet blanket, save for the warm orange hues from the occasional streetlamp. Aidan’s eye goes to and fro from many buildings, though Nathaniel doesn’t give them more than a sideward glance as he slips past. Aidan has to keep up with the pace lest he want to fall behind.

Though at some point, Nathaniel begins slowing down, either because he notices Aidan’s curiosity or because he’s in an area he’s more knowledgeable. Soon, he begins speaking, his tone reminiscent of what Aidan would expect when one reads off a grocery list.

“I’ve memorized six different routes to get to where I want whenever I go out. This one is my favourite because it passes by the Royal Library. I’ve always wanted to go there… but it’s always closed. And obviously I can never go out in the day… Too noisy. I’m beginning to run out of books. I’ve re-read some over five times now.”

There’s a crunch when Nathaniel steps on some dead leaves and a thin branch. He blinks at it, “I read in a book that there is a god in the east named Lei, and he’s a jealous guy. Really jealous. He can’t stand not being the most beautiful thing around, so he strips nature of its majesty every autumn each year out of spite because people don’t give him enough attention.” He turns his gaze towards Aidan, “Can you imagine getting jealous at trees and flowers? I don’t get gods. They’re weird. I can’t imagine wanting that much attention, anyway.”

He tilts his head, now walking, and Aidan is soon able catch up by his side. With what limited knowledge he has, he would indeed agree that the deities do have a tendency to be a bit strange. He only really remembers one from Utreau, and it was a pig.

_ <I don’t like too much attention either.> _ He signs. Yes, he’d really rather have attention from a very specific group of people. Anyone other than Master, Esme, Lauretta, Nathaniel and now Marcus makes him want to wilt like the flowers they walk past.

There’s a twitch at Nathaniel’s lips.

“Yeah, you’re always so fidgety. Makes me wonder what’s gonna happen in the Martyrs’ Festival thing. I get fidgety just thinking about it. It’s too loud. I hate it.” One of the buildings they pass grabs his attention, as it has more candles and light coming from it than the rest. Nathaniel moves further in the opposite direction to remain in the shadows.

“I read in a book that some people like to celebrate the Martyrs’ Festival with feasts that involve hundreds of candles surrounded in stained glass of various shades of red. Like the blood of those who died, or something like that.”

That stops Aidan in his tracks. His hands move wildly, _ <Died?!> _

Nathaniel tilts his head further at the silent exclamation, his chestnut hair swaying gently and eventually revealing the eye it usually covers. “Yeah. The light’s meant to represent their souls as well. People make lanterns to honour the dead. It’s kind of a big old funeral if you think about it.”

Oh. It’s like that. More… metaphorical. Aidan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, now feeling a little silly over his reaction. He smiles as he scratches his cheek with a single finger, eyes passing over other buildings as the two of them continue to walk on. Nathaniel soon notices his wandering gaze.

“That’s the We Walk Cobbler. They fix shoes. And that one is Wild Honey Bakery. I can always smell it whenever I walk past it. It’s thirty-two blocks away from the Acadia’s Diner, and I know for a fact that they use the same bread. They smell the same so I’m sure of it. And if you go ahead 106 metres and turn left, go twenty metres and turn right, and then round the next corner you get to the haberdasher. I read in a book they do sewing, dressmaking and knitting. I just like the word. Haberdasher.”

He repeats it a few more times and Aidan wonders if he’s meant to fully digest this sudden onset of new information.

“If you go back to where we turned from Jade Boulevard and actually go down that route for thirteen metres you’ll reach A Little Bitter Ale House. They don’t allow men in there. And right next to it is Rowan’s Chocolates and Surgery. That’s where the sweets you shared with me that one time came from.”

Ah, maybe he should remember that. Those sweets were good. And Esme likes sweets. He smiles at Nathaniel, signing, _ <You know a lot.> _

“Well yeah,” he points at his head, “Like I said, I’ve got everything memorized. I only really pay attention to the buildings I think are nice enough looking to draw, anyway. I have a whole sketchbook just for that. Oh, there’s this big cathedral in the middle of everything, I don’t really like it, but it reminds me of when I read in a book about this other cathedral in another city further down north. It’s called The Velvet, and it’s a _special_ cathedral. I also read in a book that,” His lips curl in a small smirk as he quotes the passage he had read. 

_“‘If you pay the right people and keep the right secrets and as long as you keep the good times coming all are willing to turn a blind eye to the less than legal activities partaken in the cathedral halls._ ’ That’s what they say, anyway. It’s totally partly a brothel. And probably a place where thieves and pirates go to. That’s what other books tell me.”

Aidan is entirely unsure how he should take that statement, though the word _brothel_ coming out of Nathaniel lips makes his skin crawl. Unknowingly, his fingers flex, sometimes clenching into a fist. 

_ <I don’t like brothels.> _

And he doesn’t want Nathaniel to like them, either.

Nathaniel appraises him with a somewhat critical gaze, and his eyes widen slightly after a few seconds. “Oh.” Is all he says for several more seconds until he speaks again. “Yeah. They’re bad. I wouldn’t want people touching me. And I bet it’s super loud. Anyway.”

He fastidiously changes the subject by continuing to walk and point out new buildings, though the two of them must sometimes hide from the occasional passerby. That usually results in going between buildings or hiding behind crates. 

“We’re almost there,” he says as they slink into another alleyway, this one hard to access as they need to crawl under another fence. It’s gloomy and with less light, vine climbing up to window sills and darkness is lurking in every corner inside the labyrinth of narrow passages and dead ends. “It’s only about 87 more metres—”

Nathaniel stops suddenly when he rounds a corner, and Aidan nearly collides with him when he skids his boots to a halt. Peeking over his shoulder, he sees why he stopped— there’s two figures in the shadows, one pressed against the other. Very clearly… in the middle of kissing until they were interrupted.

One of them, the male who was pretty much pinned against the wall, hisses at his partner.

_“Mae,_ I thought you said no one goes here.”

The woman— ‘Mae’— turns towards them with a slightly sheepish look, creating a strange juxtaposition with her scars and unruly tuft of her hair. _A vagrant,_ is Aidan’s immediate thought, followed by a spike of anxiety due to the sheer size of the woman. She and the man seem to be the same height, and yet she somehow dwarfs him, though that’s likely because her partner currently stands behind her, his arms wrapped around one of her biceps.

Aidan presses his lips together, briefly flicking his gaze towards Nathaniel, seeing his brows furrow. It’s clear he didn’t expect anyone to be here either, and there’s a vague sense of annoyance coming off him.

When he looks back at the woman he has to suppress a shiver.

There is something sharp in her eyes, just beneath the surface. Something hidden and yet in plain sight, something that spoke of… dangers untold. It… it reminded him of the fires, the explosions, the destruction he had witnessed in Utreau.

His next thought is _wolf._

But whatever is there is extinguished when her lips twitch in a wry smirk when her partner impatiently pulls on her arm, making him think he was simply imagining things. Aidan idly takes note of the man’s obsidian hair and crimson eyes.

“Well, uh, excuse us,” the woman says with a small bow of the head. She and the man pass them, and as they basically scurry off he catches their hushed tones.

“I think that was a Valentine. That guy had an Asnainian Great Hound crest on his vest… The hell?”

“Sounds like they’re big shots.”

“They _are._ They own this city. I just didn’t think we’d run into one of them. And everyone says they’re a bunch of demons. Absolute nutcases.”

“Well they can’t be any worse than Camilla’s shitheap of a family, eh?”

The two figures disappear into the encroaching darkness of the alleyway, and Aidan, while certainly a bit bewildered by the display, can only think _well, that was rude,_ before he turns towards Nathaniel to see if the two of them should continue on. Instead of walking, he stands there, lips pressed firmly together and his hand rubbing his knuckles. Oh, that usually means he’s growing bothered by something, and Aidan furrows his brows.

_ <Are you alright?> _

“No one _ever_ goes here. That was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone in this alleyway. That’s not—” he huffs impatiently, “That’s not how it’s supposed to be like. That messes with my… my schedule, my routine… I read in a book that it’s called my _groove._ No one’s supposed to be here except you and me. This is my spot.”

Immediately after he says that, he begins walking again, this time faster than before. Below his breath he mutters, clearly still annoyed by the interruption, “I don’t wanna be late, anyway. I always show up at the same time, too. Two-thirty AM. We already spent enough time when I was telling you about some of the stores. Come on.”

Sensing that he’ll probably grow more agitated the more things seemingly go awry, Aidan follows, and after about a minute of more walking they exit the alleyway and stand in front of a bush and the big iron spiked fence of what looks like a park, though it’s likely another noble’s front yard.

There are flowers that are not wilted like those in the streets, and he wonders whether they are actually real. Flowers are vast with discordant petal colours, and they conceal the freshly cut green grass. Straight gravelled paths are lined with deciduous trees and further ahead is a grand mansion with white walls and red roofs, and during the day, he can only imagine the area must look quite resplendent.

It does not take long for him to see Nathaniel’s fabled ‘muse.’

In the middle of the yard, seated primly on a chair several metres away and facing away from them, is a man. He wears a red and black suit, and his auburn hair looks well taken care of. Aidan cannot see his face, but he can see a paintbrush in his hand and an easel and canvas in front of him. The man’s hand moves instinctively to the right spot, building a picture, one of a fountain and some trees. His strokes are soft and exact. Focused. 

Almost like Nathaniel’s.

Curiosity further assailing him, Aidan glances at Master’s brother with a silent question.

“I learned painting from watching him,” Nathaniel murmurs, “It took me five different tries to even start exploring at night. Every time I’d feel too uncomfortable and run back into my room. It would be like my chest is getting too tight, like someone is grabbing me too hard. But when I finally succeeded and saw him for the first time… I knew I had to start painting.” 

He smiles ruefully. “Remember what I said to you at first? I don’t like not knowing things. I didn’t know how to paint, and I didn’t like it. So I kept coming back to watch. I learned. I memorized everything he did.”

Aidan glances back at the man, then looks back at Nathaniel. _ <Have you ever spoken to him?> _

The grimace that forms on his face is enough of an answer.

“No, no no no. I can’t do that. Or couldn’t, I guess. Because… he can’t speak, either.” Aidan’s eyes widen in surprise, “I’ve never seen anyone actually talk with him, but they do sign. I think he’s deaf. Back home I don't have any books about sign language, and like I said I can’t go to the library really… So when you came I thought that was a bit of a stroke of luck. I could finally learn that thing that eluded me.”

_ <So you’ll talk to him now?> _

Nathaniel’s face blanches. 

“No… I just… I dunno. I don’t think it’d end well.” He begins another series of motions over his knuckles, feet shifting side to side, “People call me aloof. I read in a book that means detached. Standoffish. Even _creepy._ I’m touched in the head. I just watched him a bunch. And— And I know some things about him. He’s part of the Selma family. They’re not nice people. But because he’s deaf everyone pretends he doesn’t exist. People don’t like people like you and me and him. 

“But there’s also things I… I don’t know. So I filled in the blanks. On weekdays he does embroidery from ten to twelve. He has a collection of old books about mythological creatures from around the world stored in a dusty attic. He has a dry sense of humour. He’s one of the only men in the entire city that knows how to ride a bicycle. At the end of every week he goes to the creamery to get exactly three bottles of milk.”  
  


He continues speaking, rattling on more details that get more specific than the last. While he wouldn’t call his voice outright… desperate, he reminds Aidan of Marcus. A desire hidden away, crawling to the surface after being forced down like an untoward secret.

“But I _don’t_ know if any of those are true. But the more I watched the more I pretended so I could make him my… muse. So I won’t ever talk to him. I don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t exactly how I wanted him. And I don’t want to bother him anyway. It’d suck for both of us.” Nathaniel says with a sense of finality, huffing, now tightly clasping his hands together rather than rubbing his knuckles.

Aidan frowns, unsure of how to respond. He can’t just _touch_ him like he did with Marcus. So he does what he did the last time Nathaniel was troubled— he keeps signing.

_ <Why have me teach you sign language?> _

He chuckles mirthlessly, “Because I don’t like not knowing things. Try to remember that next time…” His voice tapers off to a mumble, and he seems to speak to himself, “And I just wanted to connect to someone. I figured you would do.”

Nathaniel frowns more sharply, voice hiccuping as his next words tear through Aidan. 

“There’s something broken in me, isn’t there?” He returns to caressing his knuckles quickly and roughly, taking a staggering step backwards, “I don’t know… I don’t know…”

Aidan’s mind swims unhelpfully, there is a fleeting stiffening of his face but then he forces a weak smile, trying to be reassuring. 

_ <It’s alright,> _ He signs, despite Nathaniel clearly showing otherwise with his continued mumbling. He wishes he had a sketchbook or even a canvas with him. At least then he’d have some form of a distraction to calm the man before him down.

“Sometimes I don't... understand myself… I don’t know… When there’s too many things in my head… I don’t like it…!” His voice wavers, breath hitching as he appears to remember something, “I even made a checklist to try to understand myself, these—these… I read in a book that these make a successful person. I want to be a successful person.”

With the way his eyes gleam and lips twitch, it is as though he is desperately grasping onto a thread that will keep him centered. He unfurls a piece of paper, and upon seeing the list of bullet points, Aidan wonders if bucket lists is a thing everyone has been doing recently. Some of the points makes his chest begin to feel tight.

  * _Connect with Frey-Frey and Marcus._


  * Go fishing.


  * Play a musical instrument.


  * Go outside during the day.


  * Share my paintings with everyone.


  * Take Diana for a walk.



The list continues on, seemingly with various random points, like a stream of consciousness. The first point is of particular interest to Aidan, but then he reads the final goal.

  * _Fall in love._



But there is more, obviously having been added later with a pen as everything else is written with pencil, and it reads like a mantra, _with a woman, with a woman, with a woman, with a woman, with a woman, with a wo—_

Aidan frowns, and that seems to agitate Nathaniel. 

“I want to connect with Frey-Frey and Marcus… but whenever I’m with them… I don’t get them. I get annoyed. But I—” He sniffles, “I wanna be a good brother. I read in a book that that’s… a good thing… I don’t know…”

Another picture becomes clearer. 

Aidan’s mind harkens back to Nathaniel thinking everyone hates him. He wants to connect, but he fears rejection. He retreats when he becomes uncomfortable, just like his brother. He likes solitude but he wants Marcus and Master and maybe even more people to be by his side. Just… a connection. 

He doesn’t know if he can help Nathaniel with some of the other goals, but he wants to assist in any manner possible. A resolution ignites inside of him and burns bright, and with a set goal in mind he can feel himself becoming more centered, more focused in the maze that is his mind.

_ <I will help you with your checklist,> _ he signs, before quickly adding another comment because he knows this an important topic to Nathaniel, _ <And I don’t think you need to fall in love with a woman to be successful.> _

He doesn’t seem to grasp his words at first, but Nathaniel swallows thickly and continues shifting on his first, soon turning away. He retreats, though not out of pure discomfort, it mostly appears to be embarrassment from being unused to someone giving him this sort of attention. He murmurs a few more _“I don’t know”_ s before becoming gradually more focused.

“...We should go back. I don’t wanna attract attention from the servants or whatever, a-and I don’t like wearing these boots after a while. It makes my feet feel itchy.” Then, more softly, “Thanks.”

Aidan smiles. The coming days will be an interesting sort, he thinks. _ <We should do some more drawing.> _ He signs, both because he knows Nathaniel will like it, but also because he himself wants the rhythmic comfort that comes from sweeping one’s pencil on a sketchbook.

Nathaniel nods, his own shy smile forming, and the two of them make their way back to the mansion. It doesn’t take long for Nathaniel to endlessly speak of more buildings and stores that he finds aesthetically pleasing.

It’s quite nice when he speaks of small details he is clearly passionate about.

* * *

The night continues on as Aidan sits at his opened bedroom window, watching the sky and its stars. Beside him, on a desk, is an opened sketchbook with Nathaniel’s finished portrait that he had drawn. He likes to think he’s gotten pretty good at it. Then he realizes that for the past two and a half months this window has been his connection to the outside world, and now here he is, having left the confines of the mansion for the first time. It was rejuvenating, he supposes, but nothing spectacularly grand. He finds he might prefer these walls just so he can be close to those he’s come to value immensely. Or maybe it’s simply that he finds no reason to go out if it is not with someone else. He would gladly leave again if his… friends invited him again.

He wants to stay with everyone.

Yes. He likes where he is. And he thinks for the first time he might actually mean that sentiment. He hopes Master will one day invite him into the city with her. Maybe during that Festival Nathaniel mentioned. 

_...Master._

Images of her filter through his mind. He’s— _happy?_ But he shouldn’t be, not when she embarrassed herself like that. It was sickening. And yet the warmth in his chest remains.

Master confuses him. Again. He thinks Marcus and Nathaniel confuse him too, but much less so. There is some understanding, though realizations can be both small and slow, but eventually comprehension will outweigh the bewilderment. That’s how it usually happens before he is faced with a new befuddling topic.

He looks up at the sky, the bright moon illuminating against the velvet backdrop. Aidan outstretches his hand, enclosing his fist around the moon, and for a brief moment he imagines himself floating endlessly among that deep expanse of nothingness.

Confusion turned into understanding. It’s a bit of a cycle that can be tiring. It can be rewarding, too.

But he supposes that’s just life.

* * *

Going through Nathaniel’s checklist may take some time, as a few days later he is granted with the perfect opportunity to help the man with the fourth goal, _Go outside during the day,_ as Lauretta and Marcus decide to take Aidan out to the market. Unfortunately, Nathaniel appears utterly unwilling to go. Yet. Hopefully there is indeed a _yet._

Marcus, for his part, looks a bit perplexed about his brother actually standing at the doorway as the three of them exit the mansion. “Would you like us to get you something?”

The chestnut haired man presses his lips together, gaze staunchly trained on the ground.

“If you mess up with watercolour you just cry about it and tear up your canvas, but with acrylic you just glob more on top to fix it,” he mumbles, “Get some acrylic. Every colour you can find.” For no less than a second, he glances at Aidan, and he knows the next time he visits Nathaniel’s room they will likely be painting something.

“Alrighty,” Marcus replies as Nathaniel takes his leaves and goes back to his room, eyes now falling on someone else who stays by the doorway, who is also decidedly not looking at Aidan. “Frey-Frey, how about you?”

Master, the very picture of uncertainty, shakes her head and forces out her own reply. “Ah, nothing for me. I was just here to see you off. Enjoy yourselves.”

Lauretta doesn’t appear very enthused with that response.

“C’mon! Everyone knows the freshest air is at the market! You’ll enjoy yourself.”

“...I do believe Dr. Kippe will be coming soon for another checkup. I should stay behind.

Lauretta sighs, “Uh huh. Sure. Well when I come back I’ll make sure you’re stuck with me. Ain’t gonna leave you outta my sight, so don’t think we lettin’ you off for the day is gonna become a habit.”

A small, wry smile twitches on Master’s lips. It makes something in Aidan ache. If he could… If he could just _talk_ with her, then maybe it would lessen. She’s been avoiding him and after the entire display of her pressing her head on the ground in front of him the very fact now becomes a fresh source of guilt. It is natural for him to blame himself for it, and with further resolution, he decides he _must_ visit her room tonight. Maybe not even talk to her— but to simply kneel in his usual spot again. To simply be there. He wants to feel that warmth in his chest again, even if he might not understand it yet.

Her avoidance makes him question what really happened that night. He didn’t imagine it, didn’t he?

“Damn,” Master deadpans to Lauretta, “And here I thought I could go frolicking in the yard by myself.”

There’s a slight crease between Aidan’s brows. Why can’t Master speak so casually with him? Sure, she’s a Master and he decidedly is not… but…

He just wants to talk with her, a fact that becomes more and amore apparent with each passing day. Marcus, Lauretta and Master exchange more words, and instead of a slight warmth, there is a hollowness within his chest. A slap on the shoulder nearly makes him stumble.

“Well, we’re off! We’ll see you later, Frey-Frey,” Marcus says jovially, “I’m sure you’re ecstatic to check out the city for the first time, hmm? It’ll be wonderful! There’s already plenty of Martyrs’ Festival decorations set up.”

Aidan nods, his excitement dims considerably when they begin walking and he takes a peek over his shoulder, only to see the front door of the mansion has been closed.

That only solidifies his resolution for when it comes to Master. She mentioned something about talking another time. Maybe that was her way of saying that she is merely… waiting for him. Yes. _Yes—!!_ It was his fault they’ve seemingly become stagnant— he _will_ go to her tonight! No more waiting!

He walks purpose, and only later does he notice Lauretta glancing at him every now and then.

* * *

The city is indeed different during the day. The streets are now flooded with people and carriages, horse bellowing and overly wealthy individuals in perfectly tailored suits chattering and laughing. Aidan couldn’t take proper appreciation of the maze of winding streets, but now he sees the sidewalks are smooth grey stones, joined with such precision that the joins are almost invisible. Birdsong, the aroma of freshly shown goods and the gentleness of the sun, though it’s still a bit chilly, make the streets feel foreign.

The three of them are joined by at least two silent guards, Marcus having said something about it being unbecoming for an unmarried man to go out without the protection, even if he’s in the company of Lauretta and Aidan. From that, Aidan can notice other single men, as they are also followed by stoic guards or servants.

And then there are the stores, some of which he remembers. A Little Bitter Ale House and Rowan’s Chocolates and Surgery. The signs for each store are made of metal and wood, intricately designed and all with unique fonts to proclaim the store names. The buildings and signs are yellow, lilac, blue, red, orange and every shade in between. Selling ice-cream, meat, vegetables or fine leather goods, and in between is the occasional red-bricked house with black slated roofs. From the lamp posts hang triangular multicoloured flags, and there are indeed significantly more unlit candles and lanterns than when he last went out.

And for the entire time they move amongst the crowd, Aidan always lightly and shyly holds onto Lauretta’s puffy sleeve with his pointer finger and thumb, not wanting to let go.

“Aha, I knew you’d be enamored!” Marcus’ booming voice calls out, “Just imagine what this’ll look like when it’s the actual festival! Lullin is such a jewel, isn’t it?”

Aidan throws him a soft smile and nods. It is a wonderful looking city. It’s just a bit overwhelming with all the people. He thinks he prefers it during the night.

“You’ll get used to the glitz and glamour,” Lauretta says, her eyes flicking down at him holding onto her sleeve and she chuckles. “Y’know, if you’re worried about gettin’ lost, you can just hold my hand. I don’t mind.”

He’s about to take her up on her offer, though on Lauretta’s other side he catches a glimpse of Marcus’ lips twitching into a grimace. It makes Aidan hesitant, and the taller man seems to notice and takes advantage of it.

“Ah, Miss Elader, someone may get the wrong idea—”

“Eeeh? Why should I care about what a prissy noble I’ll never talk to thinks?” Lauretta’s tone is harsher than even Aidan expected, and when Marcus stutters out a cowed apology, she huffs and rolls her eyes, “Ugh. If you’re worried about what other people might think of the Valentines over, I dunno, a servant and medic holdin’ hands, fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if even that got you rich folk yappin’. Whatever. Let’s just get to this store you mentioned.”

Aidan blinks. Oh. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lauretta actually angry before.

Without waiting for his meek response, Lauretta trudges forward, Taking Aidan with her as he does not let her sleeve go. Something uncomfortable festers in his gut. 

Everyone’s been awfully upset lately.

He doesn’t like it.

He _really_ doesn’t like it.

After a few more minutes of slightly tense and awkward walking, they read a store called Wyatt’s Knick Knacks and Exotic Trinkets, and from the window it looks appropriately whimsical for its name. A large golden coloured contraption that looks like some type of machine intentionally designed to perform a simple task in an indirect and overly complicated way. A hammer falls onto a pneumatic cushion, which forces air through a tube, which then propels a fan to move, which then makes a marble go through multiple apparatuses and wires in a seemingly endless cycle. Conversely, at another window is a shelf of dolls, vases and ornaments.

“My friend’s sister recently inherited this store,” Marcus, his voice jovial once more as if the little spike of tension between him and Lauretta hadn’t occurred. Aidan realizes neither of them have made any reference to the aviary incident, either, “It has many wonderful trinkets. I know Aidan enjoys playing chess but not much else. So I simply had to bring him here so he can pick out something else for himself. Surely he needs more to entertain himself with!”

With a gleeful grin, he reveals a set of keys in his hands. “This is the one day of the week it’s closed. So I procured the keys so we could have the store all to ourselves!”

Lauretta whistles. “Dang. Nice.”

It’s a simple enough comment, but Marcus beams at it. “Prepare to be amazed—!!” And with that the three of them, and the guards, enter the store.

Aidan freezes as he has to take several seconds to take everything in.

There’s just so much… _stuff._

Rows and rows of shelves filled to the brink of every manner of things. Baubles, ornaments, light fixtures, dolls, books, clocks, board games, novelty items, potted plants, kitchenware and… really anything else he could think of. The first few shelves pay special attention to a variety of different types of lanterns and candles, probably due to the festival looming over. 

Aidan walks around the store, partly in utter awe, and distantly he hears Marcus and Lauretta speaking with one another.

“Are there any celebrations occurring at your hometown, Lady Elader?”

“Eh, we just eat lamb and drink berry beer and try not to freeze to death like we always do. We’re actually kinda quiet durin’ this time of year. Like, for these months lights and lanterns are hung up all over the place too, but for, y’know, light. Shit gets dark. And bein’ too loud durin’ the season is seen as rude, ‘cause my papaw always said that autumn and winter is when the world is sleepin’ and bein’ loud would be like barging into some sleepin’ person's room in the middle of the night and bangin’ pots and pans together.”

“Wow! When you put it that way that sounds so poetic… I almost feel bad for wanting to go to the mountains during winter one day… Apparently it’s become the tourist hotspot ever since Emesviel popularized mountaineering. Are there a lot of good guides? Hehe, I’m sure you’d be a good guide.”

“...Uh huh. Plenty of good mountain climbers with skill. I know one woman who lost two sets of tourists down the mountainside and she came back without a scratch both times.”

“O-Oh my!”

Aidan turns his head over his shoulder, noting Lauretta’s mostly disinterested tone and how lazily pushes the sail of a toy windmill. Ah. They’re a little awkward again.

Sighing through his nose, he returns to looking over various shelves. One includes a delicate silver chain a floral patterned vase, and a series of books with the titles “Conviction: The Legend of Rosalinde Valentine”, “The Islanders of the South: A Biography of Masayu Tufele”, “An Account of the Lives and Works of the Most Eminent Emesvielian Painters, Sculpters, and Architects”, and “Assorted Legends and Myths of the Dasir.”

Out of curiosity, he opens to a random page on the last book.

_During the final week of the year, some of the townsfolk start to disappear, only to be later found bloated and mutilated in the nearby river. Some call it a holiday celebration, while others call it a necessary sacrifice. It all depends on who you ask._

...That’s kind of frightening, so Aidan closes the book. Soon his eyes are drawn to a whole slew of glass ornaments on another shelf, and there is a folded card talking about the baubles.

_Royal Reyes Figurines,_ the card proudly proclaims, _these figurines bring light-reflecting loveliness to transform a window shelf, to gleam richly on a mantlepiece, to draw an appreciative glance to a bookshelf… There are many spaces within one’s humble home that provide an excellent medium to display the elegance of Royal Reyes Figurines. When used in conjunction with other ornaments and decor, carefully chosen figurines can shed a remarkable radiance within one’s room, establishing you as one with refined taste, for such adornments are treasures as long as women and men have an eye for beauty._

_Beauty of lovely imported Chiayan glass, inspired creation of a renowned artist and each is exquisitely modelled and painted by hand._

Privately, he celebrates being able to read the note in its entirety. His lessons with Saskia have since dwindled over the past few days, mostly replaced with Esme’s visits. Not that he really minds— he certainly is more appreciative of Esme being with him more often.

Aidan continues to intently to assess every figurine. There’s a great number of them, and he quickly discerns there are certain themes and series. There’s a set dog figurines, then cats, then birds, then horses and other animals. There’s people, too, and they are in their themes: Children, servants, nobles, soldiers and foreigners. Some look as though they could be part of the same scene, and admittedly he can even imagine himself spending a considerable amount of time trying to set these in just the right positions.

“Oooh, that’s fancy lookin’.” Lauretta voice chimes in his head, and notices her having come to his side. Glancing behind himself again, he sees Marcus has begun talking to one of the guards. He turns back to her, and she looks at one of the dog figurines. It’s label calls it an Island Shepherd.

“Am I bein’ a bitch?”

He can’t really respond to the sudden comment other than opening his mouth like a gaping fish.

At least his look of surprise makes her snicker as she talks to herself.

“I think I’m gettin’ a lil’ homesick and poor ol’ Marcus is the one takin’ my bitchiness.”

Aidan inhales so quickly he chokes on the air and coughs. Before he realizes it, he’s waving his hands around.

_ <You’re not…> _ Oh, he can’t even bring himself to sign that word, _ <You’re not like that.> _

Lauretta raises a single brow. “Somehow I knew you’d disagree. You’re so nice to a fault.” She grins tiredly, “Hey, I’ll let you in on a lil’ secret. Dr. Kippe warned me about fatigue. I didn’t take her seriously but fuck do I get it now.”

He furrows his brows, and she sighs softly— _dejected._

“I really just wanna go home.”

Aidan’s signing is immediate, his heart plummeting from her words, and he responds in the only way he knows.

_ <I’m sorry.> _

“Shucks man, I wasn’t tryin’ to blame you or somethin’ like that. Guess I just needed to have an ear to complain to, heh...” Lauretta sighs, “Don’t you go tellin’ this to Frea, by the way. Don’t want her gettin’ in her head thinkin’ I hate her or some shit. And don’t you go worryin’ about this, either. I made a promise I’d see this through the end. Besides, I can’t go givin’ up an apprenticeship anyway.”

She pats him on the shoulder, “I’m fine, really. And you’re fine with me. Just gotta get Frea up to speed. Whenever that’ll be. I dunno how Esme does it.”

_ <I am always here if you need an ear.> _

His face is resolute, and Lauretta looks at him with wide eyes for a moment, before she blows a breath. 

“Good to know.” Is all she says, which then spurs Aidan further.

_ <What is your favourite food?> _

She blinks, and he repeats his question for good measure, resulting in her having a dumbfounded smile play on her lips.

“Lamb, duh.”

Right, she’s mentioned eating that a couple of times. He nods.

_ <I will make that for you next time.> _

A single laugh comes out of her, and he takes it as a victory. She makes a few more passing remarks about him getting whatever he wants before returning back to Marcus. Aidan begins nibbling on his lower lip as the new information begins slowly settling into mind, with a predictable onset of brief confusion.

There is an awful lot going on.

On bad days he feels like he’s sinking in a well on top of being in a maze. Where does he go? What should he do with the new information constantly being provided to him? Every time he asks himself that, he always returns to the same spot in the maze, to the same answer.

He just wants to help everyone. Somehow. In any way possible. It’s— It’s what he _does._ All his life, that’s all he’s ever done.

He looks at the figurines. He thinks about Lauretta’s words. _“You’re so nice to a fault.”_

Inevitably, he ponder’s Esme’s words.

_“You can… like things for yourself. It doesn’t have to always be for someone else”_

His teeth tugs more forcefully on his lip.

What if he _wants_ to like things for someone else? What if he _wants_ to be nice to a fault? 

He just wants to share what he has. 

Is that so wrong?

Aidan thinks about his envelope of payment that’s in Marcus’ bag. Then he thinks about the figurines in front of him. He thinks about everyone. He thinks about helping them in a way that’ll just make them happier, even if it’s for a little while. Gifts always make people a little happier.

He thinks of Esme. Of _safety._ A proud glass figurine of a large dog stares at him. _Emesviel Mountain Dog_ says its label, along with the words, _devoted, intelligent, and brave._ That, to Aidan, is intrinsically Esme.

He’s going to buy it for her.

He thinks of Lauretta. With the human figurines is a rosy-cheeked scraggly looking woman sitting on a rock with a beer bottle in hand. Even as stationery glass, she looks like she’s singing. _Drunken Sailor,_ is its label. The joviality of it, as well how the woman just seems good natured and fun...

He’s going to buy it for her.

Aidan then thinks of Nathaniel. Immediately, he begins looking at the artists. There’s a painter, a wigmaker, a cobbler, a sculptor… But they’re all women. He’d get the painter if it were a man but… none of them are. It… It would just feel more right to give Nathaniel a figurine of a male painter, he thinks. 

Then he remembers about his books. Try as he might, he can’t remember all the books he saw in Nathaniel’s possession, but he knows he’ll have to take a chance and pick one out. He chooses the “Assorted Legends and Myths of the Dasir,” since that is the only one from the pile he can definitively remember _not_ being in Nathaniel’s room.

He’s going to buy it for him.

He thinks of Marcus. The one he unfortunately knows less about. 

But he does know he is partial to birds.

A bright red cardinal catches Aidan’s eye. Especially since it’s even fashioned with a tophat. It’s plump. _Rotund._ Just like Nathaniel described his first every drawing. Again, he thinks if this can give the man a semblance of reprieve, then getting it is worth it.

He’s going to buy it for him.

He thinks of Master…

He already decided which figurine he’ll get her.

Mind now set, Aidan smiles at himself. If anything, Esme’s and Lauretta’s seeming concern for him provides him with more motivation. He wants this. This is what he was born for. Helping, sharing, giving himself to others— It is something for him to be proud of, to hold onto, to help him to see himself in the way he really is, he thinks. There is something about giving of himself that makes his heart burn all the brighter and ignites his soul.

Why _shouldn’t_ he hold his faulty kindness as his highest treasure?

Gift giving is simple enough. But he doesn’t intend to stop there. He wants to help to his fullest capacity. With the patient determination of a spider, something as intricate as a web of connections can be fashioned again and again.

_Connections..._

He blinks, grin growing wider as more vigour fills his veins.

The picture is clear. He _gets it_ now.

How could he not have seen it earlier before? It’s all so obvious now!

Nathaniel wants to connect with Master and Marcus. Marcus wants to connect with Lauretta. Lauretta and Esme want to connect with Master. And Master… Master wants to connect with _him._

And _he_ wants to connect with _her!!_

She really _is_ waiting for him! 

Everything is about connections. He’s going to give everyone gifts to further solidify his with everyone else, then like with a string of Cat’s Cradle, he’ll weave his way around to connect everyone with who they need! He’ll use Nathaniel’s checklist as an excuse to get him with Master and Marcus. He’ll find ways to get Marcus and Lauretta together. He’ll talk with Master and get her and Lauretta and Esme and— and— _and—!!_

Aidan practically sprints towards Marcus to get his money.

* * *

As it turned out, insisting that Marcus and Lauretta not see what he bought was a lot harder than anticipated. Marcus seemed especially curious and excited about it, and Aidan actually feels kind of bad about saying he can’t see it yet. All in due time.

He wants to give Master her gift first.

Ah, having money _is_ nice if he’s able to do all this.

Aidan waits for the moon to rise in the sky. He… had never liked nightfall. Because it meant hands creeping against his skin, sometimes the movement was rough, and sometimes he’d distantly hear father’s wail in the ensuing darkness. The eerie darkness of those nights would never escape his memory. He clearly remembers the pitch-black curtain draped over the sky, and the twisted, warped shapes that the stars made against the blackness.

But now, nightfall is calmness. Nightfall sometimes means drawing or painting with Nathaniel. Nightfall sometimes means him kneeling in Master’s room. Right now, in this very moment, nightfall means he holds Master’s gift in his hands and he has to go to her.

The night… means a blooming of a fragile hope.

Having become well acquainted with this routine now, he tip toes across the hall to reach Master’s bedroom. The eerie silence is only occasionally broken by the creaking of the floorboards. He pries the door open, slowly, and quickly slips inside. When he enters, he holds her gift with both hands behind his back.

Initially, he was just planning on kneeling and waiting for her to wake up, but instead it appears he won’t be waiting for very long. There’s rustling in her bed, a gasp, a whimper, a tight grimace etched onto her face. It is as if she is trying to keep her head above water, and the moment he decides to go to her, her eyelids fly open and she violently pushes her bedsheets away.

Swallowing hard, Master clutches furiously at her chest, perhaps hoping that by a scratch or simple graze, her heart would stop racing, and her body just might entirely shut down – causing her clarity. It’s something Aidan has done before when there is a cold sweat washed over his face and chest— much like how Master is now— heart trying to escape through his throat the first chance it could get.

Her display forces him to stop where he is, in the middle of her room, and when she seems to realize she is not alone her wide eyes stare at him. For several seconds, the only sound is her harsh breathing that gradually slows. 

He can see her jaw tense considerably, which in turn makes him press his lips together nervously, and Master soon pinches the bridge of her nose and looks up on the ceiling. “In, out,” she murmurs, “Look at the photos.”

Reminiscent of when Nathaniel needed some time to calm down, Master slowly but surely appears to recenter herself. Expelling a breath of air and roughly rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, she speaks to him, a slightly grimace still on her expression.

“...What are you doing here?” Then more morosely, after a sigh, “You don’t have to… kneel in that corner anymore.”

He shifts on his feet. His uncertainty is clearly palpable, as Master clears her throat.

“You can come sit on the bed… I promise I won’t do anything to you. Don’t worry.”

Aidan nods, hands tightening on the gift behind him, and awkwardly sits down on the soft sheets. Master doesn’t look at him, instead busying herself by fiddling with a strand of hair, looking grimly at the corner of the room. 

It appears to take her considerable effort to get her next words out.

“I’m sorry about… avoiding you, I suppose. I needed some time by myself. And then I got busy with these constant check ups with the prosthetist. There are times where you just simply slipped my mind,” the corner of her lips twitch downwards as she lets out a groan, “I apologize for one thing only to do something else wrong. Ugh. I’m just— _ugh.”_

She looks up at the ceiling again, Aidan following her gaze, and he recognizes some of these photos. One of a lake, one of a younger Nathaniel. There’s others he doesn’t remember. One of a snowy cabin with what he assumes is a young Marcus and Master standing in front of it. A puppy chewing on a toy. A vast field with some houses dotted across a hill. A statue of a grand looking woman basked in a ray of light.

“When Marcus showed you some of these pictures, he talked about them. And I didn’t want you to understand him, so I either lied or told you to do something to make it seem like you knew what was being said.” She murmurs.

...Yes, Aidan certainly remembers that.

“Ah…” she rubs her temple, “I’m embarrassed just thinking about it. It was certainly low of me.”

He continues looking at them. He thinks he likes the one with Master the most, though there aren't a lot of them. After a few more moments, she speaks again.

“Would you like to know about these pictures? I won’t try to hide anything from you. I’m _not_ like that anymore.” Her fists clench when the final declaration is hissed out. At any other point he thinks he would take it as some sort of vague threat, but… instead he feels a calmness. A serenity, almost. 

He nods.

She then begins pointing out each photo and talks of them.

Aidan learns of the Remian Loch, a lake said to have been formed from the tears of a god after he was assaulted. It was a sad story. He learns that Nathaniel first tore Master’s photos apart when she first showed it to him. He learns what figure skating is. 

He learns that Master misses her various family outings.

“Ah, this one I asked Marcus to take,” she says as she points to a slightly blurry photo of a younger looking Master running with a stick that appears to have a net on one end, “This was when I used to play lacrosse. You use the head of the stick to carry, pass, catch and throw a ball. It was quite fun. I stopped playing when I was thirteen.” 

She points to another photo that is her with those bladed shoes people use for figure skating. She’s carrying another stick, but no net this time. “Then I started playing hockey. Also fun. I stopped playing that when I was sixteen.”  
  


With a tilt of his head, Aidan’s question is silently asked.

“I always tried different sports because I felt like I needed to fit in somewhere. Or… that I just needed an excuse to get away from home. But I never stayed long because it always felt like I was… disappointing my mother.” She frowns, “The only thing that stuck with me consistently was photography. Probably because I could do it on my own time and I didn’t need a team… Not like I was very successful at taking pictures, anyway. Look where that got me.

“...Anyway, this photo was when Marcus rode on a snow sleigh. The picture doesn’t do it justice, but it was actually bright red with golden bells. I think Marcus was about… nineteen in this photo. He was terrified of the horses. I think he still is to some degree. One of them bit a hole in his sleeve.”

She continues on, a sense of nostalgic lilt filling her voice, though a sense of derision never quite leaves. She’s not happy. Of course she isn’t. These memories appear to provide Master with a sense of comfort, but they are memories that also remind her of before the bomb. Before him.

It is then he decides he should try to help.

With resolute determination, he quickly presents her with the gift he had been hiding behind his back with pleasurable anticipation. It’s a couple of inches tall, a glass figurine depicting an armoured woman sitting upon the back of a white winged horse. The horse is reared back on its hind legs, and the woman valiantly holds up a spear towards the sky.

_Knight-Empress Elowen,_ was its label, and it was also one the very few figurines also labeled a _Prestige Figure._ And it was significantly more costly than the rest of them.

Master blinks owlishly. She looks at the figurine now in her hands. Then she looks at him. Then she looks back at the figurine.

“Wha…” She starts, “Where did you get this?”

_ <I bought it. I bought everyone something> _

“...How much money did you spend?”

Oh, he’s a little embarrassed to admit this one.

_ <All of it.> _

She gapes at him. “You used your entire salary?! Why?”

_ <Because it made me think of you.> _

That makes her cough awkwardly after a brief splutter, and Aidan thinks he feels a slight hint of redness on her cheeks. “What the— This is Elowen. She’s some demi-god who defeated a bunch of monsters,” she scrunches her face together, “I’m not very privy about her legends but I’m— what— what about her could have possibly reminded you of _me?”_

_ <The label called her courageous and strong.> _

The twitch in her eyes tells him she is entirely unconvinced. He begins rubbing his hands nervously together, half wondering if he should get the string out for Cat’s Cradle again. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curl upwards as she throws her head back.

“Are you making fun of me?” She says with a hint of laughter in her voice, the mix between her accusation and tone making Aidan completely at a loss of how he should respond. He’s not afraid. He doesn’t think he is. But he isn’t sure if he completely failed at what he set out to do, either.

She looks at him again, and while she may be smiling, her face is despondent.

It makes a dull ache form in Aidan’s chest.

“You should hate me. But instead you’re giving me a… a _gift.”_

His signing becomes more hesitant, and he hears his own heartbeat echo in his ears. 

_ <I don’t hate you.> _

Her lips quiver, “But I… But I—”

In the back of Aidan’s mind, he thinks about everything. The bomb, the train ride to Asnain, the belting, her derision and her trying to keep him to herself.

But above all, he thinks about her saying sorry.

He thinks of the crushing weight of guilt of failures he had convinced himself he was responsible for, the weight of accusing tongues, took him into a living nightmare— and his mind sometimes conjured them as grotesque bodies under ice during those painful, lonely nights. And yet when now, there is nothing but water under his ice, everything is crystal clear. 

His lips form into a shaky smile as he attempts to keep an onset of tears at bay. The women that had beat him before, the women who have raped him— he… he _hates_ them. He wishes that he could have seen them die under the feet of Asnainian soldiers. The memory of what they did to him, to _father,_ still makes his legs give way to gravity, shaky, weak. The retching goes on for so long Aidan sometimes loses track of time and then he realizes what the stench is of the bile crawling up his throat. He’d never actually vomit, but the foul odour dominated his senses. The chill of those nights chill freezes his skin and the little brain power he can muster.

But now?

_She_ said sorry. _She_ said what _she_ did was wrong. _She’s_ trying to be different. He can see that.

And that makes him feel like he’s floating on a cloud. 

That warmth that had blossomed in his chest, a happiness that gave him such a sense of liberty he didn’t know what to do with himself. He understands now. He understands why she acted the way she did; and it was _wrong_ and _bad_ and _he didn’t deserve any of it,_ but nonetheless he releases the negative emotions associated with everything; and he is renewed. _Freed._

_Master._

_Frea._

_Master, Frea, Master, Frea._

He has only one thing to say.

_ <I forgive you.> _

She swallows thickly, exhaling heavily, and closes her eyes.

“You… I don’t know whether to think of you as clueless or think that you...” She chuckles as she runs a hand through her hair. There is no mirth in her voice, but it is not self-deprecating, either. “You really might just be the strongest person I have ever met.”

He smiles softly, relief flooding him in waves. His throat constricts, and sees that her own eyes have become moist. He’s only ever known isolation and being alone with vipers, but now his mind is beginning to fill with peace and serenity. The scars will never leave him, but they can fade, he thinks.

And he hopes he wants her own scars to fade.

Because he wants her to forgive herself.

Another chuckle comes out of her. “Just… try to save up some of your money next time. You never know when you might need it,” She looks at him then and this time her gaze remains on him, there is something so earnest in her eyes that makes his heart skip a beat. She’s a little better now. She’s overcome something, “But the sentiment is appreciated, Aidan.”

She’s overcome something and he helped her.

_ <I want to help everyone else.> _

After placing the Elowen figurine on the bedside desk, she gives him a questioning look. “Help everyone else?”

_ <Yes.> _

Aidan then tells her everything. The desire for everyone to connect. 

The entire time, she watches his hands intently, hand going to her chin as she thinks over everything. “...I had no idea Nathaniel felt that way… And I didn’t realize Marcus’ own issues apparently ran deeper than expected. Oh, Lauretta...” She murmurs to herself.

Though Aidan had neglected to mention himself wanting to connect with her. He kind of wants to keep a bit of a secret… but also, he thinks he knows how to succeed in what he wants.

_ <Can you help me with this?> _

She blinks. “With what, playing matchmaker with everyone?”

He’s not quite sure what that means, but he nods anyway.

She almost laughs, though she stifles it. Perhaps he should have asked later. He’s probably overwhelming her. _He’s_ overwhelmed with everything. Aidan knows he’ll absolutely need to take a couple of minutes tomorrow morning to remind himself of everything. 

“Yes,” she says softly, so softly that he isn’t sure what she said at first. She repeats herself, this time louder. More certain. “Yes, I think it might be beneficial for everyone. Would certainly give me something else to do. Both a distraction and useful.”

Pride begins to swell inside of him, and this time he does begin digging in his pockets to get out the string. When he has it, he quickly makes the X of Cat’s Cradle, eagerly watching her and indicating she will do the next step of the game.

The first genuine smile he’s seen in a while crosses her lips.

“Thank you, Aidan, truly. My mind is feeling more clear because of you.”

She reaches forward, though she stops mid-way, her tongue wetting her lips.

“There may be times I snap. I don’t know. I’m still trying to… unlearn. Controlling myself is a continuing battle.”

Her hands then go over his and she pinches the two center X’s of Cat’s Cradle with the thumb and forefinger of both of her hands. She then pulls the X’s around the outside of the bottom strands and up through the center.

She’s trembling, just barely.

Aidan gently slides his hands from the string.

“So allow me to apologize again. I’m sorry, and…”

She opens up her thumb and forefinger, and soon he brings his own hands to slip among hers to make a new shape with the string. His lips part slightly when he looks at her face again, seeing a single tear running down her cheek. Her voice wavers, but her smile is wide and exuberant.

“Thank you.”

* * *

They’ve played Cat’s Cradle for what feels like hours, and when Aidan returns back to his room he holds tightly onto the string. He doesn’t ever want to lose this. He wants it to always be on his person for the rest of his life.

He lets out a breath, eying the other figurines on the table.

Esme will be happy, he thinks. He was a little selfish like she wanted him to be.

Because he did buy himself something in the end.

His hand lightly trails over the glass figurine. _An elephant,_ was its label. He knows this animal, Nathaniel had drawn one for him at some point. Aidan quite likes it. It’s so strange looking, yet he thinks it’s kind of… cute, in its own way. 

Aidan feels lighter than he ever has before. Brighter and stronger overshadowing his passivity and vulnerability. _I’ve made it,_ he thinks, _I’ve made it._

Everyone’s faces filter through his mind, from his father and the men in the brothel, to his past Master, to everyone here— all coalescing to a surge of emotions that finally compels him to allow himself to shed tears of happiness for the first time.

All the while, he thinks about what else the label for the glass elephant said. Something else he wants to embody until his dying breath, alongside his faulty kindness.

_Deeply loyal and forgiving._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel: I just want a relationship with my brother and sister and to feel accepted 😔  
> Marcus: I’m having an identity crisis but I also want to feel validated as a man so I cling onto the first non blood-related woman I come across 😔  
> Lauretta: I hide my growing homesickness and fatigue with humour and sarcasm 😔  
> Esme: I must stay with Frea and Aidan because I feel responsible for their situation 😔  
> Frea: I have no feet, my mother is awful, and sometimes my mind wants me to become an anime villain 😔
> 
> Aidan: My Time Has Come To Help Everyone With The Power Of LOVE And FRIENDSHIP 😤😤😤
> 
> Anyway, the thing Aidan was looking at in the store window was a type of Rube Goldberg machine, I didn’t know how to really describe it so I just took a sentence from wikipedia lmao. Ignore that this was basically a rehashing of the previous conflicts already established in the last chapter but spiced with significantly more Aidan POV. I just hope this didn’t feel too much like filler. Much like the characters, sometimes I feel like I'm not going anywhere with my writing. C'est la vie.
> 
> But yeah, people are gonna get their shit together. With this, we’ve officially entered the final story arc. I more or less have an estimate with how much is left with the story. I’ve even written chunks of the epilogue already. Hopefully it’s something we all can look forward to.
> 
> Before Aidan (and Frea) can start with his matchmaking schemes, there’ll be another interlude. Hope y’all like politics and overt misandry in your matriarchy, cause there’ll be a good chunk of that next chapter.
> 
> Also I compel you to look at this incredible art my friend shidreamin made 🥰🥰🥰 If this was a published book this would be the cover 🥰🥰🥰🥰  
> https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/624103183228338176/781632281781207090/BlindWoman.jpg


	19. Interlude: Reward the Truly Devoted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wondered what mommy dearest is doing when she isn't busy tormenting her children?

There was a time in Asnain in which every girl who is to become a Matriarch was sent to Wintervale School for Aspiring Young Women from the ages of four to thirteen. They are taught basic things, such as reading and writing, while having the seeds of what makes a successful Matriarch planted into their young minds. After then, they attend a prestigious secondary school, and afterwards, depending on their family’s status, university. It’s different nowadays, what with the introduction of boys in the primary education system, as well as the general restructuring of how to teach future Matriarchs.

Wintervale School for Aspiring Young Women is no longer a school, rather it has been refashioned into a church. It remains as a grand building near the outskirts of Lullin, with its high arched windows, musty prayer books, stained windows and campanile. As a young girl, Damaris fondly remembers the brightly lit passages with it's floor of encaustic tiles and its white-painted walls and hanging flower pots. A statue of Acadia oversaw the main hall and she was very particular to always pray to it every day.

Something else she keeps deeply embedded in her memory are her lessons. They did and continue to make up the very core of her beliefs. Afterall, Wintervale was a distinguished and esteemed school. She would have been a fool not to keep its teachings close to her as she continued to grow older.

_ “The nobility, of course, are descended in an unbroken line from the Holy Mother’s compatriots who helped create this world, and none more so than the glorious royal family of Asnain. Empress Danae has ruled our country long and well, and exemplified the best traditions of Asnain royalty, basing her every decision on the precedents laid down by Acadia herself. Princess Euphrasia will one day succeed her mother and once she does, you all will become Matriarchs of your own family, carrying on the auspicious privilege of assisting the Empress when needed.” _

Damaris remembered this lecture as if it were yesterday. The Arch Priestess teaching the class looked upon her fondly, as she often did. Of course, the Arch Priestess works closely with the Valentine family. She recognized this woman having various meetings with her mother back home. It is only natural that she gave Damaris the respect she was consistently owed.

_ “Our bloodlines are holy, touched by Acadia herself. Take the propitious Valentines for instance, my young students. Descendents of the goddess of the hunt, Damaris. In a time when women could neither write, nor speak, nor barely think, the divine wolf— as ordained by Acadia— bestowed upon a select few the gift of her blood. From there, the Valentines were born. Knights and protectors of faith, the Valentines have always been appointed as lawmakers and leaders of the Arch Priestesses from the Cult of Acadia.” _

Sitting at her desk, Damaris proudly straightened her back at the talk about her namesake. The goddess of the hunt is a wolf, such grand creatures, and so the Valentine patron animal is the direct descendant of tamed wolves— The Asnainian Great Hound. Since time immemorial her family has been the greatest hunters of the land, as shown by the grandiose mounted heads and taxidermy that decorates her home, and fierce protectors. Hunters weed out the weak. Hunters eliminate the unfaithful who dare threaten the Empress’— and therefore Acadia’s— holy rule.

She remembers being taught about her ancestor Rosalinde, who assassinated the leader of some Anti-Acadian upstarts. Damaris had yet to visit her tomb at this time, but the sheer pride of having the blood of such a magnificent woman flowing through her veins made her hold her head up high. 

It is said from there on, her family was further blessed by Damaris as a reward. Her family were granted a kind of heightened awareness, such that their recalcitrant prey could never flee too far from their senses. Truly, it is of no surprise that her family’s leadership over the Cult of Acadia has not once ever been questioned. The perfidious is always sniffed out, and always,  _ always  _ reconverted.

Centuries ago, the Valentines were castellans, governors and knights of a single castle that overlooked several farms. That castle soon grew, and grew, and grew, eventually becoming Lullin— A city that still competes with Asnain’s capital in terms of sheer majesty and beauty. Since they continue to be among Acadia’s highly favoured, the Valentines continue to be the Empress’ trusted confidants as those who both write and uphold laws.

_ “So you see, students, Acadia is the undisputed maker and ruler of this world and the heavens, and with the divine royal family line unbroken, all is right and proper—as it should be.” _

———Indeed, Princess Euphrasia’s ascent to the throne was a day unheralded, and the young woman seemed to have a genuine relish for the rites and duties ordained by tradition for the heir. Many among her court spoke of how the Princess was nimble and quick-witted, and she was quick to master the lessons of her tutors.

_ Yes,  _ Damaris had thought when she listened to the new Empress’ rousing speech, she was an adult at that point,  _ This will be a fine ruler for another generation. Praise be to Acadia.——— _

Back in the classroom, a seed was planted in her young mind from listening to the lecture. The nobility is necessary for governing. The nobility are  _ demigods. _ Chosen by the Holy Mother and the other Holies! Acadia’s will is clear, civilization must be ordered and maintained. Their gods rule over them and walk among them as the nobility. Asnain’s cultural history is founded on tales of the chivalrous nobles who are able and ready defenders in times of trouble. She decided then and there, that that was a legacy  _ she _ would continue with righteous glory.

It is a balance. A hierarchy is for the good of the people. There is a reason they were chosen as descendants from the Holies.

And there is a hierarchy between the nobles themselves, of course. They might all wear the same black and gold uniforms, but they were not equal. Damaris often assessed her classmates. The Valentines were direct confidants of the Empress. Protectors and defenders. Everyone knew that they were among the most  _ important. _

As such, most of her classmates were lower than her. Her bloodline was infinitely more divine than the rest of them.

_ Especially _ when it came to some of the… others that gave her a bit of a sour taste in her mouth at the mere thought of them. Even in her youth she was aware of how trade made Lullin prosperous, and the profession of merchant had become an accepted alternative to the younger sisters of Matriarchs. That is all well and good, but it has since been  _ twisted. _ Now, the outright elevation to the noble class can be bestowed to a  _ commoner— _ as a convenient way to reward outstanding contributions to society. Oftentimes, merchant families are plebeians who have been lucky enough to land on good fortune.

The most notable of which being the Dolloway family. A thorn on Damaris’ side ever since their riches catapulted their name to being recognizable to not only every corner of Asnain, but internationally as well, as their wares and stores proudly displayed their name. 

Their bloodline is not  _ divine. _ They are not  _ touched _ by Acadia. For their daughter to be sent to the same school as her? A school for  _ Matriarchs?  _ Infuriating. The rightful nobility like herself may be demigods, but clearly some are less devoted than she if they allowed such ilk among themselves like this.

_ “My family have treasuries as big as the Empress’s!”  _ Avery Dolloway had exclaimed during a break in-between classes. Damaris quickly decided she was a spineless weasel of a girl, always spouting off obvious lies and nonsense, and yet her classmates always gravitated towards her.  _ Pathetic, _ she had thought, a word she often heard her mother murmuring whenever the topic of merchant families were brought up.

_ “I’m probably blessed by one of the Holies, haha! I’ve got an eye for anything valuable, and I bet I can appraise them all with only one look!”  _

Preposterous. Damaris busied herself with reading her scriptures, attempting— though failing— at ignoring the annoying girl’s insipid rambling. She grinded her teeth, her hands tightening on the pages of her book every time Avery so much as made a squeak.

_ “Like any of your heirlooms, like  _ yours.”

Damaris’ eye twitched, the tone and proximity of the voice telling her the comment was directed at her. She turned her head to see Avery’s blue eyes twinkling, and her blonde hair tied back into a series of tight braids. Damaris met her haughty gaze by narrowing her eyes suspiciously, jutting out her chin.

_ “What is it, Dolloway?” _

Avery had the temerity to snort with a grin.

_ “Sheesh. You’re such a party pooper. Anyway, your family has that fancy ruby necklace thing as an heirloom, right?” _

Out of habit, she straightened her back and puffed out her chest in pride, though she did not smile.  _ “The ruby Amulet of Acadian Faith. It is a pendant of divine investiture. Gifted to my first ancestor by both Damaris and Acadia.” _

_ “Mhm. I’ve seen it hanging on your mother’s neck. Are you suuuuure it isn’t just made of plastic?” _

The sheer absurdity of the comment made Damaris’ mind blank, and her lips parted in shock, the sound of her classmates snickering making her head ring.

_ “I’m not sure if a ruby being handled by people for so long can actually last for centuries like that! I’ve got a merchant’s eye. I can tell when something’s the real deal. I bet it broke somewhere down the line and it had to be replaced by cheap plastic.”  _ Her voice tittered in laugher, joined by some of the others.

Meanwhile, Damaris had quickly begun to shake with rage. The audacity of this sniveling little—!!

_ “You are not a real noble!”  _ She stood suddenly, her chair falling to the ground, and in a fit of anger she slammed her fist down onto her back,  _ “Take that back! Take back what you said right now!” _

For several seconds there was a tense silence, Damaris’ grey eyes boring a hole into Avery, who’s shoulders have tensed from the abrupt shout. Avery’s lips curled downwards in a pronounced frown.

_ “It was just a joke… Jeez…” _

Normalcy came to them again as Avery walked off to return to her friends. The sounds of chattering voices returned to the classroom, though Damaris continued to stand there, nostrils flaring, only retaking her seat after grimacing sharply. The absolute disrespect against her person by someone who shouldn’t even be here hit her with a wave of frustration. She clasped her shaking hands together, calming herself with a prayer.

_ Give me peace, most high and mighty Acadia. Peace and grace. _

She prayed until class resumed, although Damaris was certain she could feel the stare of some of her classmates on her.

Whenever she saw them smile, she believed them to still be laughing at Avery’s poor excuse of a jest.

It irritated her to no end.

And so, at the tender age of thirteen, Damaris decided to do something that would forever change her life. 

Discipline, she thought, was necessary for everyone, herself included. Acadia had made a hierarchy for a reason, and it is a hierarchy that must be kept. It was the Holy Mother’s will. A will that must be obeyed. The nobility must remain loyal. The Valentines, at least, have swore on their lives to uphold the cause.

Protectors and defenders. Upholders of the law. Upholders of  _ balance. _

This is simply what Damaris was doing.

It was a spring day. The wind had lost its winter bite, it had become ambient, congenial, blowing branches and tousling the hair of pedestrians. From the gardens waved the precocious yellow bloom of the daffodils. The only clouds were fluffy, white and quite dispersed, there would be no rain that day. 

It was only her and Avery walking the path towards the dormitory. Damaris found out that Avery was fond of playing tennis after classes. And so she waited. And when she was done she walked behind the Dolloway girl. It was just the two of them on the gravel path.

Damaris picked up a fallen tree branch. Suitably thick and heavy. It would do.

_ “You have really bad manners,” _ she muttered under her breath.  _ “You and I are not the same.” _

With that declaration sinking deep into her very core, Damaris Valentine took the tree branch and proceeded to beat Avery Dolloway until the false noble lay battered and bleeding on the ground.

After the deed had been discovered, she admitted to it. She felt no need to hide it.

An Arch Priestess thought it prudent to reprimand her by spanking her with a ruler, and for a month afterwards Damaris was grounded in her dorm. One day, from staring at her third story window, she watched her mother bowing her head towards Avery’s mother outside. An apology, no doubt. Several of them from what she could infer.

Oh, it was truly a stomach churning sight. One that she would never forget because of how viscerally wrong it all was. Damaris  _ knew _ she was in the right, and was rewarded by not seeing Avery for the rest of her final year at Wintervale, but no one seemed to  _ understand  _ that she was motivated by the divine blood flowing within her.

Damaris’ mother then slapped her, and her accompanying scream was like a fierce winter gale.

For a time, she was at a loss. If anyone should understand her, it would be her own mother. After all, they share the same blood of the wolf! The first days of being grounded were spent with pitiful sniveling and wretched tears. 

She would weep until her body was slick with a sheen of sweat, a nausea that bubbles within her, her intestines curled in a tight and unrelenting knot, her hands trembling as she breathed in ragged breaths.

In the rare moments of respite she would read scriptures and pray. Asking for guidance. At times, she’d ask what she did wrong, no matter how hard it was to get the words up from her throat.  _ My goddess and my guide, I only wish to do right by your word. _

She was lost, that is, until during her scripture readings she came across a passage appropriately titled  _ The Codex of Damaris. _

_ Damaris, the howling death, the scourge of the faithless, one of Acadia’s most highly favoured. _

_ Near the western shores of Asnain is a dark and foreboding pinnacle of mountain named Damaris Peak, appropriately shaped like a proud howling wolf. It is said Theodosia, Acadia’s loyal crane, pecked and scratched the stoneface to intricately create a giant sculpture of the divine wolf both as a glorification and reminder to the humans below on the hunter’s constant scrutiny of their actions. The mountain has been known as a haunted peak beyond a treacherous pass of fog and shadow. _

_ Since time immemorial, prisoners convicted of lacking faith would be condemned to climb the mountain. Every step brings with it a measure of pain and weakness as one marches to their inevitable demise in the maw of the divine wolf. In recent memory, such a thing is no longer practiced, but Damaris is still tasked with the purgation of the feeble minded. And so, if humanity will no longer condemn their own, she will come down the mountain peak to deliver her righteous ire.  _

_ Damaris sunders those she condemns though she is never seen and never heard. She is an intelligent wolf, and above all she is scheming and skillful. Every execution is an artform and as such beloved by Acadia; because even the faithless deserve a judgement in which everything must be beautiful.  _

_ However, Damaris’ most important duty is the death of impetuous ideas. Sometimes, humans become too content with what they have and forget from where they come from. They forget Acadia. A fool’s pride veils her judgement and better reasoning. Even the smallest of actions, harmless as they may seem, can cause a tidal wave of dangerous thoughts that lead them astray from the Holy Mother’s words. Under Damaris’ scrutiny such ideas ebb and flow and fade away, as they should, but some refuse to die. Some ideas are everlasting imperfections on Acadia’s beloved tapestry. _

_ That should not be. _

_ Unwilling to die, these ideas claim false dominion in the minds of humans. It causes them to rebel against their nature and against Acadia. As such, Damaris is merciful, almost impossibly so. She will only execute those deemed too far gone. She would much prefer to sever poisonous ideas from humanity before they have the chance to fester. That is true justice. Acadia would much prefer that her children are not condemned to death if there is a chance they can return to her glorious word. _

The scripture continues on, but the words  _ scheming, skillful _ and  _ artful _ ring out in her head like a church bell. Repeated endlessly, were her thoughts visible they would be an inverse explosion, chaotic turns and twists of light all coming together to just one idea that is birthed from those three words.

_ Aha, _ the realization was like the sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Mother hadn’t slapped and yelled at her because of what she did. She punished her because of  _ how _ she did it.

There was no subtlety to it. There was no scheming, skill or art put into it. No  _ beauty. _ And she fully admitted to her actions instead of attempting to play dumb like an actress in a play.  _ Never seen and never heard, _ is how the wolf prefers it. It was  _ not _ perfect.

Damaris then knew better.

She knew she had to do better. It was a Valentine's duty to do better. She would be ill-suited as the leader of the Cult of Acadia if she did not take this incident as a learning opportunity.

So she began to watch her classmates. She began… testing them, she supposed. But most of all she was testing herself. Watching them. Scheming. Honing in her skills and her  _ art.  _ She took special note of the daughter of the van Belisles and Redferns. They, too, have significant hold over Lullin, much like Damaris’ own family. 

The van Belisle girl, Liliana, quickly made apparent that she… had lost her way.

_ “I don’t like going to church. It’s so booooooooring.” _

That just didn’t sound  _ right. _

Once, some months after her beating Avery had been forgotten and things returned to normal, she began practicing delivering the lines with the innocence of a choir girl. She made sure she had wide eyes and a slight choke in her voice. She practiced from dawn to dusk. Then she pinched her forearm forcefully enough for there to be a bruise by the time her mother would come visit the dormitories. Damaris quickly decided it wasn’t enough, so she went outside to get a stone to graze her knee. There was a little blood, excellent. 

She made sure to look dishevelled. Mother would know if her tears were fake, so she used the stone more… energetically. 

She had played her part magnificently. Liliana grabbed her hair and threw her to the ground and had stolen her bracelet. Ever since her horrible  _ mistake _ with Avery, Damaris was trying so  _ hard _ to repent but her classmates had become such terrible bullies. The bracelet being in Liliana’s sealed her guilt and she was reprimanded.

It was with an impish glee that she continued practicing on her peers. All justified, of course, they were getting  _ ideas. _ Damaris was playing her part of stamping out misguided thoughts! She would only go after those she deemed not up to par to her standards. Surely, as nobles with their own divine lineage, they would come to realize they were being punished only when they expressed something  _ naughty. _ Then they’d realize the error of their ways.

_ Never seen and never heard. _ Damaris embodied that next. Pretending to be a victim would no longer be successful. 

Tying a wire to two trees to make someone trip. Putting a pail of cold water on a slightly open door so that it falls on the next person who opens the door further. Putting a strongly worded letter in someone’s shoebox which results in two friends fighting with one another.

They were rare enough occurrences that no one became suspicious of her. Just simple  _ pranks _ she heard the adults say. Though she knew some of her classmates were more incredulous, likely due to her poor handling of Avery, and later she would regret how she handled Liliana. Subtlety, she remembered. She would need to consistently do better.

_ ‘Girls will be girls. This happens every year.’  _ The adults would say about her so-called pranks.

If only it were so simple.

There was… a problem among her peers… Something she should have realized much sooner, but she only became aware of it once she reached adulthood and began to seriously think of everything. These... ideas… commoners becoming nobles, the apparent lack of devotion, and later boys going to school, Wintervale no longer being a place to teach future Matriarchs… Such horrible things that threaten the balance Acadia painstakingly created. A poison festering in Asnain’s veins became so much clearer to her as the years went by.

Every saint… experiences hardships in their life. Their triumph is what makes them a saint. Her ancestor, Rosalinde… a select group of people hated her. Defaced her home. Questioned her divine blood. It was only when things became too far did she resort to assassination, quelling some very bad ideas indeed.  _ Separation of church and government _ would be a sentiment that would forever be a shameful stain on the annals of Asnainian history, but it was rightfully stamped out due to Rosalinde’s actions. 

_ Ahahaha,  _ she must embody Damaris. She must embody the protector and the hunter. She must assist the Empress as an adult— that was what she was literally born for, after all. That was all Matriarchs are born for, and yet… With each year she grew older it became exceedingly clear...

They’re not good enough for the Empress. Charlatans wearing the title of noble. There is an infection slowly spreading through Asnain and seemingly she is the only one aware of it. She must correct these wayward individuals. It’s what the Holies would want.

Even if that means completely annihilating whatever power they have. The van Belisles and Redferns never improved no matter how much she pushed for them to become better.  _ I do not like how you’re leading the Cult of Acadia,  _ they’d say,  _ You’re too forceful. Mandatory attending the church is ludicrous. I’ve got more pressing issues to deal with. _

So she got rid of them. It was only right. The Valentines were the original castellans, the original protectors of this land. The van Belisles and Redferns only appeared later.

_ False nobles. _

With every breath she takes she must vow to annihilate viperous ideas. Just like her ancestor. Every moment of strife would only further justify her ideals. Her flushing out these poisons, it will make Asnain stronger.

Yes. It will be hard. But it is hard for any saint. All victories inevitably come at a cost. 

The lessons to herself had become more intense the older she became. During sermons, political meetings, and observations of those she now deemed untrustworthy, Damaris became increasingly aware she could not let anyone know what she was thinking. A twitch of an eye, a slight curl of the lips— such minute expressions were abject failures on her part.

She knew she could not ever allow her emotions to show once she had become Matriarch.

It was a continuous, ever growing weight, set upon her back, like she was carrying a load twice her weight and jogging around a track. The lessons she puts upon herself were harsh, but  _ necessary.  _ She practiced her facial expressions in front of a mirror. In order to truly test her look of impassivity she would insert needles into the webbing between her fingers.

And she continued to set more needles to her skin.

Shards of glass, too.

The stinging burn was instantaneous, like a fire that licked the surface of her body. It was something white hot, and she felt her face cringe the more she tore the skin of hands and arms. 

She glared at herself in the mirror.

_ “You can do better than that,” _ she growled,  _ “You must. You’re a fucking demigod. You’re resilient. You’re  _ better _ than this.” _

She cannot be a Matriarch if she can’t bear hardship of every kind. She cannot be a leader and a lawmaker if she falters at some as paltry as this. She can’t be someone great, a descendent of  _ the Holies _ and  _ touched by Acadia, _ if she cannot tolerate a little torture; she is strong, she is resilient, she is better than the false nobles.

And she did better, when she disinfected the lacerations and tried again the next week, the next month, the next year. She did better when her needles and glass began to explore her legs and feet. She did better when she no longer winced. She did better when she looked at herself in the mirror and saw only a blank stare. She did better when she learned to control her language.

She did better when there was no more wetness on her cheeks.

At the age of twenty-four, Damaris considered her lessons successful when she began to hear whispers of those speaking about her lack of reaction to anything. 

They called her creepy and like a doll. She called herself divine.

* * *

Since the end of the war, meetings of the Empress' royal court have become… messy. Ideally it would emphasize the benefits of mutual respect, vigorous trade, and reverence for Acadia. The courts that have discussed what, exactly, to do with Utreau now that the war is over has lasted months now, with argument and debate at every turn. After another dispute, Empress Euphrasia raises her hand and stands, immediately silencing everyone.

As with all Empresses, Euphrasia has a sea of bright red hair cascading down her shoulders, just like Acadia. It’s dyed, as she was born with brown hair, but it is tradition that every Empress should resemble the Holy Mother as closely as possible. Her eyes, a deep blue, perfectly beautiful, and yet were at the same time full of sweetness and majesty. The skin is fair, though there are wrinkles of her growing age, but those too were beautiful, of course. Her age is a testament of her exceptional ruling over the past generation. She is dressed in a simple robe of white satin, with minimal jewelry. So modest. So graceful.

“There are several routes we can take, as you all have debated so thoroughly and zealously, but they all boil down to either appeasing existing structures or erasing them,” Her perfectly manicured finger tapped slowly on the rounded desk, “We have executed most of their elites. There are still times I wonder if that was going too far. Perhaps it would have been more beneficial by weakening ethnic bounds through means of deportations— taking their elites and settling them elsewhere, and using them as skilled labour when needed.”

Someone is about to disagree with her, but a single glance from the Empress silences her. The monarch continues, her voice calm and confident.

“But of course such a thing is no longer viable. I am aware of that. So, after much thought and meetings, I have decided on a plan, and I would like you all to hear it, and give me your own thoughts. Perhaps there is still room for improvement.”

Both hands on the desk, she leans forward, and everyone in attendance listens with rapt attention— Damaris most of all, eager to hear what Acadia’s most highly favoured and chosen would say. No doubt it would be something magnificent. 

“First, with the results of the conquest still fresh on both their land and people, there should be immediate recruitment. Serving the military grants citizenship. Citizenship has bonuses such as exemption from future trade taxes and other benefits to a citizen's family, such as temporary free healthcare. We then use our newly converted Utritian forces and our own excess forces— separately, of course, and with the Utritians not allowed to handle weapons and certain equipment while additionally under strict supervision— to build up strategic institutions in Asnain’s new territory.

“We will call it a Building Program. Building irrigations, dikes and dams, roads and markets,  _ however _ we will do so with flags and songs. Traditional Asnainian folk songs will be sung constantly. Our national anthem will be played on the radio. The Asnainian flag will be proudly waving at every corner. It will show Asnain’s power and unity, while also winning the favour of the citizens. They will know it as a concentrated government effort to improve their pitiful lives.”

Her next point drives a tingle down Damaris’ spine.

“Construct as many churches as we can. An Arch Priestess must walk the damaged land and minister to those who come to them. They council, administer aid, feed and do all the good deeds required. But sermons and large scale gatherings must also be awe-inspiring. The soldiers occupying their land will be zealous and faithful. If a good deed needs to be done, it must be done on a massive scale. Food handouts must be a grand celebration with song and dance. Make it a spectacle. It must show that Acadia lives, and her way is righteous.

“Then establish a system of education. The Utritians as they are… they are divided and weak. We must teach their future children the truth of their country— the endless wars and revolts, the suffering their ancestors went through, it’s all done now. We’ve  _ rescued _ them. They’re safe now under our rule. Education must be mandatory to introduce Asnainian history and Acadiasm as their new truth, as well as to establish our language, number, scales, standards and so forth.

“From education comes culture. Entertainment _ must _ be all Asnainian made. Books, magazines, comics, music, movies… all must come preferably from the capital. Education will ensure they understand and enjoy all of our glorious art. Finally, we will need time. As long as we provide for them with food, shelter, income, and what have you, time will erode the differences between us and after a century or two, you will have a single people under a single Empress.  It is imperative that we make them love the royal family and Asnain as soon as we are able. ”

She sits, and a murmuring washes over the table, and Damaris is the first to voice her concerns. 

“Should you give these Utritians a loaf of bread, who’s to say they will not become overly dependent? That they will simply not take advantage of our kindness, becoming strong, and soon planning a rebellion in secret because they think of us as naive, kind fools?”

“Rule with a combination of compassion and strict adherence to law and protocol,” The Empress raises a single brow, “That is our shibboleth, is it not?”

Damaris’ expression remains impassive, though inside her stomach begins to churn.

“Compassion sometimes needs… a firm hand. I say that we make these infidels  _ work _ for it. They will be granted shelter and food only when they willingly listen to the Arch Priestess’ sermons. Healthcare only administered once they have fully converted and pledged their allegiance. We must punish the disloyal, and reward the truly devoted.”

“These are a fragmented people who have just survived a war that took out a third of their population. The majority of them are civilians. Further dividing them will create more dissent and tension, and that will likely motivate another rebellion.” There is a brief stiffening on her expression, “‘Punish the disloyal,’ you say, but we have not given them a reason to be loyal to us in the first place. With care and time, they will naturally assimilate.”

Another Matriarch stands suddenly, one Damaris recognizes from one of the more eastern provinces. 

“So we expend our resources on these people, who instigated the war in the first place, and over a ‘century or two’ they will fully become Asnainian in the truest sense of the word? Have you forgotten that we have had almost a million soldiers die?! We need to focus on Asnain! There are entire communities in shambles because they no longer have enough labourers because they’re all dead!”

The Empress cocks her head to the side, jaw tightening poignantly. “Do not think me incapable of understanding that there are multiple issues at hand, Matriarch Lancaster. None of these are things that will be miraculously fixed in our lifetimes. These are long standing issues our daughters will one day inherit because this war will take us several years to fully recover from. By taking the Utritians under our wing, they can become labourers as well, and—”

She raises her hand to prevent another outburst, as the idea of having Utritians introduced into the workforce continues to be a controversial topic, “Let your Empress finish. Utreau in itself is rich in minerals and spices. The revenue that can be gained from having their resources introduced into our trade routes can bring those communities out of poverty as well as provide a series of jobs for our people. One day, Utreau will be no more. It will simply be another part of Asnain. We need to treat Utreau as if it is already Asnain and lovingly cultivate both its people and its land for the sake of  _ our  _ people and land.”

There is another series of murmuring, some that agree, and others being furious whispers of dissent; speaking of being too kind. Damaris remains silent, revealing nothing from her expression, though inwardly she still holds onto her belief that being too  _ ‘compassionate’ _ will cause the Utritians to bite the hand that feeds them.

They need to know of their place. They are  _ not _ Asnainians. 

Acadia preaches kindness in all forms, but she also preaches an absolute adherence to keeping peace and tranquility.  _ A firm hand, _ she repeats in her head. Benevolence… should only be given to those who deserve it. To those who have proven themselves. She’s had to use a firm hand on her peers to keep them walking the line of righteousness. There is a thin, often invisible, line between  _ kindness _ and  _ weakness. _

While she would never deign to think she can possibly do that to her own Empress, she does think the woman is in need of more guidance.

That is what she’s here for, after all. No matter, all will be right in due time. These things take patience.

After more discussions, Empress Euphrasia dismisses her court with a flick of a wrist. “Meeting adjourned. Thank you for all your comments and concerns. Should you still feel that there is a matter that needs addressing, please send me your correspondence. Utreau is a matter that must be dealt with, and I intend to begin implementing my Building Program plan within the next month. Should the need arise, such as Utritians proving themselves difficult, I will have any issues dealt with quickly.”

And another issue quickly arises as soon as she declares that.   
  


A rush of footsteps rapidly approach the massive oak doors that connect the meeting room with a long, ornately detailed hallway that is decorated with a series of marble statues of previous Empresses. A distinctly male voice rings out, and clearly a scuffle occurs. The guards standing near the Empress unholster their guns and point it at the door, Damaris hand twitching on the hidden blade that is her cane.

When the door bursts open, a man currently being accosted by two guards attempts to get further inside the room. His dark brown hair is messy from the debacle, though his clothing is immaculate. A doublet made of rich silver and black cotton brocade tells Damaris he is likely a brother from the Matriarchs in attendance. The crest on his breast pocket confirms it— a bear. The same family of the Matriarch from the eastern province who made that earlier outburst.

“Empress—!!” His voice bellows, a violent swing of his arm revealing a newspaper tightly clutched in his hand, “Empress Euphrasia, if you sincerely desire to forward the interests of all the people, why do you oppose men in the workforce?! To own property— ngh…!"

The man is shoved roughly back, a hand going over his mouth, as the guards forcibly move him away from the room. Soon, both his hands are pinned behind his back and tied, though it does not stop him from letting out one last shout when the hand momentarily leaves his mouth to retrieve a proper gag.

“Am I not as much as a citizen of Asnain as any woman—?!”

Now properly gagged, he is dragged off, though he resists his arrest at every turn. The Matriarch who is likely his sister has a look of horror etched on her face, shouting a quick “Declan!” before running after them. Then, a strange silence befalls the courtroom, an occasional exasperated sigh breaking the air of tension. Other Matriarchs pinch the bridge of their noses, and there is some more murmuring that Damaris overhears.

“That Lancaster boy is a world of trouble. Even his sister has begun spouting nonsense of letting men work, saying that they’ve proven themselves capable in the war.”

“That was a last minute resort because all the labourers had been sent to the battlefield. But the women are  _ back _ now. I’d have thought these ludicrous men would have been sent back to ministering the home by now.”

A third woman interjects with a hiss, another one of those merchant families who have been elevated from being commoners. “Do you hear yourselves? Matriarch Lancaster just mentioned there not being enough labourers! How are men meant to return to their roles if all their women are dead? I swear, some of you need to actually  _ see _ the results of this war, until then I refuse to believe that you actually truly love this country!”

Another argument breaks out, and Damaris thinks she’s about to develop a headache. The woman next to soon joins in.

“It may be beneficial to temporarily allow men to work in very specific spaces— such as the factories. They can be treated as unskilled and cheap labour.”

Yet another laughable compromise that will make men far too confident in their current stations. Yet another case that will likely end in them biting the hand that feeds them. They will want more. It is in their nature. What more will come, will they be demanding that they be part of the Empress’ court, too? Ridiculous.

Noting that the Empress has actually left, as well as more Matriarchs filtering out of the room, Damaris decides she is done here. The Empress might need more guidance on certain matters, but the so-called issue on ‘male personhood’ is not something she needs assistance on. The headline of the discarded newspaper makes that clear.

_ EMPRESS EUPHRASIA CONDEMNS PROTESTS AT ACCASHIRE _

Those men who impudently blocked traffic and very nearly stormed a government building were not arrested as they should have been, because while she condemns their sometimes violent actions, Empress Euphrasia relayed a popular tenet—  _ “Be kind to your men. They will need a firm hand, but you must conquer them with love. Only then will a man willingly submit. It is that willingness to submit that will make you a stronger woman.” _

Yes, it’s true— a man will submit if you lead properly. But Damaris still thought her too lenient in that circumstance, though as it stands, she is satisfied with Empress Euphrasia’s current standing on the matter.

And, well.

Damaris is doing her own part in… quelling some loud ingrates. All in the name of helping the Empress, of helping Asnain.

* * *

When Damaris was six she passed by the teacher’s lounge in Wintervale on her way to get lunch. She heard something particularly interesting. Apparently one of the woman’s mentors recently passed away.

_ “Rest in peace to that old hag. Sure, she might have beat her husband like there was no tomorrow but… don’t we all? Hah!” _

It had confounded her at first. That seemed to go directly against being kind to one’s men. It sounded distinctly un-Acadian. 

Then, ten years later, as she was in the midst of seeing faults and weaknesses in her peers, she read a very important textbook she had taken out from the library. It was not a book taught in her classes, something she thought was a missed opportunity by the education system.

_ On the Physiological Idiocy of Men, _ it was called. Nowadays its terminology is absurdly considered antiquated, but the time it was the end all be all on what was needed to known about the male sex. It was a big, thick textbook that Damaris read almost as intently as her scriptures. It educated her on some very key concepts.

_ Women and men have very distinct characteristics— some of which they both share to some degree. All people are composed of a mixture of female and male essences. Feminine characteristics are active, productive and conscious, while the masculine is passive, unproductive and unconscious. As such, men are in constant need of proper guidance from his mother, his sister, his wife; otherwise he will be lost. Without guidance, even something as simple as the distinction between good and bad will become too hard a concept for him to grasp. _

_ A man’s primary duty is sexual function. It is an unconscious deed on his part, yet at the same time a man will always be consumed and driven by his sexuality. If a woman is not careful, she too may be overtaken by what little masculine essence she holds in that instead of being in control of sex, she may instead be controlled by sex. Men can threaten a woman's femininity, either unintentionally or otherwise, by luring a woman into a constrictive grasp of his sexuality. _

From studying these readings, Damaris became aware of another poison.  _ Men _ and their  _ ideas _ were especially dangerous if not kept in check. Men need to be conquered to find the true calling of their sex. This… ‘men’s liberation,’ as they call it, is the renunciation of a man’s right to be a man…  _ by other men!!  _ They are condemning themselves! But of course they are not aware of such a thing. Doing this, they are attempting to emulate women, and become no better than ingrates.

They wish to involve themselves in the sacred hierarchical order sanctioned by Acadia… but how can they not see that they are already doing so? It is by their relation with a woman that they are introduced in the hierarchy! How can they not see that by viewing their wives not as lovers, but instead as their keepers, their personal Empresses, that they will find their true identity as men—!!

These ideas have always been around, but it was never an issue because it was small and insignificant, but ever since the final years of the war and beyond they’ve grown exponentially, not unlike a cancerous tumour. They’ve become  _ organized. _ Mostly commoners, but with some nobility foolishly partaking as well.

Sometimes being ‘kind’ to one’s men is beating them. Truly, the kindest thing one  _ can _ do for when they are led astray is reminding them of their place. Of course, the women in their lives are not completely exempt from blame. Men getting these ideas in their heads is the result of poor leadership. There are many women that need to better themselves for the sake of the men they so apparently love.

As she grew older, a niggling sense of severe dislike never quite left her whenever she had to interact with a member of the opposite sex. Mother had naturally attempted to have her paired with many available bachelors, which was of course to be expected, but Damaris had made it clear she had no desire in marriage but assured that she would have children.

Because the idea of a man entrapping a woman with his sexuality never left her. It makes so much sense. Men, with their tight pants, unbuttoning their shirts low enough so that their chests are visible, the lines of their firm bodies so apparent from their form-fitting clothes… All to  _ lure _ women, and women in turn lose themselves from the entrapment. 

Damaris has seen firsthand what happens when a man threatens a woman’s femininity. These rooster-pecked women with overbearing husbands that they no longer have the desire to contradict, lest they want to deal with a man who becomes over emotional and makes home life more exhausting than one’s own work. Perhaps the main poison flowing through Asnain is its men. Something went wrong. They are not acting as they should and they are no doubt affecting the women.

So she never married, both because she truly believed a husband would be nothing but a burden, but also because she wanted to show her power over the other noble families. She did not need their alliance through marriage to be successful. It was another punishment on her part, she would not allow them to monopolize Lullin’s resources because Damaris still continued to find endless faults with her peers. 

When her mother passed and she took the mantle of Matriarch, she further purposely insulted them by hiring prostitutes or buying a lowborn noble son for the evening.

She would always ride them to completion, having no desire for any other positions or anything called foreplay. Once she was done, she ordered the man to leave her home immediately. She especially disliked loud and whiny men.

Marcus’ father was a prostitute, with matching black hair and physique. Nathaniel’s and Frea’s fathers were both lowborn nobles— nobility who are not quite divine, and do not have enough status to be part of the Empress’ royal court. 

During her first pregnancy with Marcus, she came to the quick conclusion that she needed someone to be in charge of her children’s growth, keeping an eye on their education, making certain they have a strict diet, attend church, and have some degree of physical fitness. She would be far too busy governing Lullin and being involved with Empress, not to mention dealing with less than favourable individuals with the Cult, though naturally she would spare time to properly educate her daughter on several subjects the schools no longer teach. 

But she knew she could not hire anyone local. They could be involved with a noble family who might be working against her— _false nobles are surely attempting to take the Valentine lineage down—_ and as such truly trustworthy families are rare in Damaris’ eyes. 

So she hired a foreigner. Foreigners have no power in Asnain. Servants who hail from the Southern Isles are known for being more efficient than most and they are often appointed as house stewards. When whoever she hires isn’t paying attention to her children, she will be filtering through correspondence and essentially being Damaris’ receptionist.

She got into contact with a woman named Saskia Maugatai soon after. A respectable enough woman who has been house steward experience before. When Damaris had the woman in her office the two of made some idle chatter before a serious interview commenced.

_ “It says here you have children?” _

The woman practically beamed, clearly being a mother was a point of pride for her.

_ “Yes, five.” _

_ “Any boys?” _

_ “All of them.” _

_ “You have my condolences.” _

Saskia had given her a strange look then, but did not make another comment until the interview began in earnest. It did not take her long to hire the Islander. Once Marcus was born she found she was not actually disappointed at him being male. Sons can be useful. Another display of power— Damaris herself may not need to marry, but other families  _ will _ need to marry her children in order to gain her favour. Her daughter especially will be the prime example of a prodigy with wolfish blood, she’ll make sure of it.

Oh, what a bitter pill it was to swallow when all three of her children did… not turn out as she expected.

It became very apparent that a prostitute was of poor breeding stock as Marcus grew older.

_ “Mama! Auntie Saskia gave me a haircut! Look, look!” _

She was reviewing tax documents in her study when an eight year old Marcus ambled towards her. He indeed had a new haircut. And it was indeed a nice one. But him calling Saskia  _ auntie _ did not sit well with her, and she made sure to make it clear to the woman that if she did not wish to have her pay severed that she would not allow Damaris’ children to call her such a thing in the future.

Then there was the subject that Marcus was clearly expecting a compliment. He was a child, yes, but value must be instilled in them while they are young. Men revel in compliments. It leads them down the paths of impropriety. Should she allow him to get ahead of himself, the next thing she knows is that he is an adult, having a new haircut and suddenly pretending to have several errands to run, only to lay in the embrace of a woman he barely knows.

———And that’s exactly what he did years later. A fact that is a continuous shame on her mind. She knows that he gave himself to a mere stablegirl, luring her with his sex appeal. The only reason she has not outright disowned her own son is because Frea displayed exceptional skill in lying in time of distress in order to protect his sullied honour. She pretended the stablegirl stole some silverware and promptly fired her. She even planted the stolen item in the woman’s room.

Damaris had been momentarily impressed. Her daughter was quite the convincing actress at the time. She had then hoped that if she continued to play dumb regarding Marcus’... less than diserable actions that Frea would display further potential.

That, unfortunately, would not come to be, as Frea continued to be a consistent disappointment much to her growing chagrin.———

_ “Do not let your vanity get the best of you, Marcus. And you would do well to not refer to Saskia that way.”  _ Is all she said regarding her son’s haircut.

He did not seek out compliments from her again.

She had simply done her part in guiding him as his mother.

* * *

Damaris sits in her office, a room she keeps stringently uncluttered. The walls contain only a door, a low bookshelf that houses both books and taxidermy birds, and a single oil painting— Acadia with a wolf and crane by her side. Her mahogany desk with three drawers on the right hand side is similarly clean of any mess: a book, this week’s newspaper, a neat and small pile of letters and documents, and a framed photograph of her three children.

She fingers a newspaper, another woman standing in front of her desk. She’s dressed as a servant, though her main duty is as an agent of the Cult, as Damaris’ eyes and ears when she cannot go out and do the things required herself. 

_ Men’s Liberation Movement May Disrupt Martyrs’ Festival, _ laments one headline. Further reading goes on to discuss a growing issue she has been battling with.

_ Signs continue to litter the commoner’s district of Lullin, with storefronts and houses proudly displaying their allegiance and support for the Men’s Liberation Movement. Sources stipulate that the movement may organize a protest during Martys’ Festival, “They know they’ll be seen by a lot of people, and they of course want to be seen. They want to be controversial,” said one informant.  _

Damaris hums, and then she is given a separate newspaper by her agent. An ‘underground’ newspaper, so to speak. It is not something officially printed or published, and is written entirely by supporters of the movement. ‘Men’s Voice,’ is what it is called. Apparently dedicated to properly educating the public.

_ Anti-Liberators say Men’s Rights would destroy the home. Pro-Liberators say Men’s Rights would protect the home. _

_ Who are the Anti-Liberators? _ _ Corrupt nobles and politicians who employ cheap and foreign labour while widowed men struggle to make end’s meet, they are nobles who do not care that there are widowed men who served their country by working in a weapon's manufacturing factory are now being forced to work in brothels. They are both women AND men who are ruled by custom instead of reason. _

_ Who are the Pro-Liberators? _ _ Fathers who are fighting the enemies of the home with unequal weapons; fathers who try in vain to protect the interests of their sons; what few working men are left who are at the mercy of lawmakers; unmarried men who wish to have an identity outside of marriage; boys who have dreams of attending university; philanthropic women, such as Arch Priestess Alystin and Lady Janice Temer, writer for The Lullin Times, who see that men’s liberation in practice protect childhood and the home.  _

_ Come to Lady Janice Temer’s home, at 341st Penrose Street, tomorrow evening at seven o’clock to learn more of our movement. We welcome all, even those against us, so that we can have a proper discussion based on facts, not theories. Please, come and ask questions. _

It then goes on to hail the Republic of Anavelle as a purveyor of men’s rights, using it as an example of how allowing men to attend university and work can both assist with the economy and homelife, though asserts that the Republic still has a ways to go for true ‘liberation.’ 

Near the end of the farce of an article is a truly disconcerting sentiment.

_ Perhaps it is only with the abolishment of the nobility can we truly achieve equality. _

And it is only more disconcerting that this is apparently a sentiment shared by both an Arch Priestess and writer for The Lullin Times. Arch Priestess Alystin has been a bit of a thorn in Damaris’ side. She would often need to pretend to speak on the woman’s behalf because she couldn’t trust her to  _ not _ say anything absurd. Perhaps it is time for her to be… removed from her position.

And then there is the writer. She is aware that Lady Janice Temer has attempted, and failed, to write Pro-Liberators articles in The Lullins Time on multiple occasions. With that never being successful, she’s apparently moved to the next step of opening her home as spaces for so-called education and debates.

It is time to send a strongly worded letter of complaint to The Lullin Times. She knows her word alone will be enough to get the writer fired.

_ Poisons _ and  _ ideas, _ and what have you. Asnain has survived a war. It will survive this tumour that is attempting to cripple it. Much like her peers that she is often testing and finding reason to eliminate, she understands that there is a purveying issue with the commoners, both male and female. 

They simply don’t know what they want. Sometimes, citizens of a nation get a bit  _ too _ drunk on freedom. They must be tightly clutched and kept in line. Her role as hunter and protector clearly extends far beyond from just the Empress.

“Have some agents attend this so-called meeting at Lady Temer’s home and give me a list of names of everyone who attends it,” Damaris says, and her agent nods in response. “Any more pressing news from the commoner’s district?”

“A flurry of new signs have appeared. Three more commoner families have joined the movement. And it has also extended to the market square. The proprietor of Rowan’s Chocolates and Sugary has recently vocalized her support.”

Ah, that is indeed worrisome. That is dangerously close to reaching the noble district, but well, it’s long since been established that her fellow nobles have a myriad of their own issues. And while not from this province, she feels the need to be updated on that Lancaster family.

“What other news do you have on Declan Lancaster? The man who interrupted the Empress’ royal court meeting?”

“He refuses to willingly leave his cell. He is threatening a hunger strike if he is not granted an audience with the Empress.”

“Hmm.” She hums. How pitiful. Almost laughable. Regardless, the Empress will not lower herself to hearing whatever he has to say, and the man will be force-fed should he go through with a hunger strike. Either way, it is not something to concern herself with. This will not have an effect on Lullin. 

Now back to these ‘Pro-Liberators’... 

Damaris leans back in her chair, “Sometimes violence is an artform sanctioned by Acadia,” she muses, her agent straightening her posture in attention. Damaris continues, “It would be such a shame if a commoner’s home burned down from an easily preventable accident.”

Her eyes flick towards the agent’s face, the woman’s expression perfectly mirroring her own impassivity; certain members of the Cult who have proven themselves go through similar training Damaris put herself through all these years ago. 

“A perfectly controlled case of fire,” Damaris says easily, “No casualties and it does not spread anywhere substantial, perhaps happening while the occupants are attending a certain meeting. Perhaps they forgot the turn off the oven. And it would be a further shame if someone else got mugged weeks after the arson, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“I have to wonder if more stones will be thrown into windows.” Picking up a pencil, she looks at a document on her desk. A list of names that have been collected over a series of months by covert members of the Cult. 

She lazily twirls the pencil in her hand, soon bringing it down to put a checkmark on a random name, though she specifically focuses on the women this time around, “It would be a shame if someone got fired because their ideas are creating a hostile work space,” another checkmark at another name, “It would be a shame if someone got expelled from university for cheating,” another check at another name, “It would be a shame if someone has their prized horse stolen.”

That will do for now. The agent nods curtly, saying another “Yes,” before turning on her heel and departing.

Now alone, Damaris stares at the painting of Acadia. If she had not steadfastly trained herself, the corner of her lips would be twitching upwards. “You would agree, wouldn’t you?” She asks the painting, “Sometimes the only way to make them see your light is to take everything away from them.”

With that idea reinforced,  _ all for the good of Asnain,  _ she begins with the next thing on her itinerary.

She unfolds a paper and begins reading the chicken scratch that she begrudgingly calls writing.

_ Mamaw, _

_ The apprenticeship is goin’ well. I think. I’m not really sure since I haven’t been given any grades or anythin’ like that. Y’know when I said I’m livin’ like a noble in that fancy shmancy hotel? Well I can’t stand it now. It’s too stuffy. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not with my friend and patient. Not one wants to talk to me when I’m at the hotel. I’m just there. I guess they don’t like northerners. I kinda wish I could just sleepover at Frea’s place. I get too restless just sittin’ around. _

_ I wanna run in a field. I wanna herd some sheep. I didn’t think I’d miss those fuckers but here I am. _

_ How is papaw? You said he got sick. What kind of sick? I know he had a stroke last year. That shit can fuck you up real good. Are you tryin’ to keep me in a dark again? Is he really bad? _

_ I’m glad Alex and Calvara have settled down in Anavelle. I just kinda wish they could have stayed with y’all at the farm though. It sounds like you could use some of the extra help. Even if Alex can’t cook for shit it’s better than havin’ to do everythin’ by yourself because papaw is too sick to do cookin’ and cleanin’. It sounds like you’re doin’ alot. _

_ So I’ve enclosed all the money I have with this letter. Use it to hire someone to help out. Please. _

_ Don’t even try to send this back to me you old hag.  _

_ -Lauretta. _

Satisfied that there is no hidden code or something of the sort in the letter, she deems it safe to be sent out. She’s taken it upon herself to intercept the northerner’s letters due to her proximity with Frea. All her correspondence with her mother has only resulted in worry about her ailing father’s health and frustration over her brother and his wife apparently moving constantly. Still, one can never be too careful with commoners. A slip of a tongue, or hand in this case, might reveal too much that Damaris is comfortable with.

There are moments when she wonders if she should thank the woman for her service and send her away. The same goes for the Utritian, but Frea had displayed an interesting sort of potential with the man.

Her overflowing spite. The way she acted like the man was a toy she didn’t want to share. Ah, that was brilliant. If only her daughter could funnel that energy into something useful. She needed to display that aggression much sooner as a child, an aggression that showed she would put people down when it resulted in her getting what she wanted.

But now, it’s suddenly ceased. She fucking  _ groveled _ and  _ apologized.  _ To a man. To an  _ Utritian.  _ A descendent of the divine wolf, Acadia’s favoured, does  _ not  _ apologize. What happened? Her bawling her eyes out to Esme, for one thing. What an absolute disaster. An  _ embarrassment.  _ When she had been made aware of the event it took everything in her being not to order the man’s deportation then and there. 

She rubs her brow, sighing through her nose. Ah, not now. Her children can be a topic for another day. She had that Men’s Liberation Movement to deal with currently. Frea and the rest are a niggling worry for another day. 

Damaris will allow these fools to continue visiting and living in her home.

For now, anyway.

* * *

Damaris did not kill Avery when she beat her with a tree branch.  _ Obviously. _ She’s not a murderer, of course. That would be going much too far. She just made the sniveling brat fear her, as she should, much like a lowly peasant revering the castellan of the land. Though unlike the van Belisles and Redferns, she didn’t not extinguish her family name. Avery Dolloway proved to be useful. 

On the eve of her donning the Matriarch title, Damaris threw a party in celebration. She invited many important individuals, Avery included. The woman never failed to give her glare whenever she spared her a glance. The merchant had a scar twisting up her brow and forehead, a gift from Damaris’ trusty tree branch.

When the perfunctory greetings and discussions were complete and the nobles began imbibing in tea and engaged in idle chatter, Damaris seeked Avery out. The woman was busy scowling at the cup in her hand, standing off to the side of the room like a wallflower. Above her head were a series of mounted deer heads. Fitting.

_ “Avery, dear, not enjoying the party?” _ Damaris cooed, greeting Avery with a smirk. If it meant making the false noble’s skin crawl, she would momentarily cease her detachment and allow herself to indulge in smiling. Damaris’ thick auburn hair was braided and snaked around her shoulder and neck, a style that she would keep for years to come.

Avery looked back and forth, skittish like a mouse, as if trying to discern if any of the other houseguests were listening in on them. Apparently satisfied, she whispered furiously.

_ “Cut the bullshit. Your letter—” _

_ “My, my. Was there an issue with my invite? I meant no disrespect, I assure you.” _

The way her face contorts in fury was a particularly rewarding sight.

_ “Stay away from my daughter.” _

_ “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” _ Damaris frowned in mock bewilderment,  _ “Now you’ve got me thinking about what I wrote on the invite. Aha, could it be that my discovery of your illegally gotten goods has gotten you agitated?”  _

She bared her teeth in a smile, and Avery’s expression blanched. 

_ “You— Your accusations are baseless.” _

Truly an adorable attempt to save face.

_ “Imagine my surprise when one of your workers comes to me with thousands of pages detailing your naughty, naughty dealings with Chiayans drug lords. To think you’re using your quaint and lucrative stores as a disguise to funnel your dirty money and to make your earnings seem legitimate. I must say, I was impressed indeed by the scale of your operations.”  _

The ‘worker’ was one of the Cult of Acadia’s agents, and it was the result of a full year of investigations involving multiple planted agents. Damaris had initially just wanted to keep an eye on Avery as her businesses were beginning to encroach on Lullin, but to think she would land on a secret so delicious! Truly she is Acadia’s most highly favoured, indeed! She knew she would corner this false noble eventually! It was only a matter of time!

She stepped further into Avery’s personal space, making the woman practically shrivel with how she recoils visibly. 

_ “To think one of the most successful businesswomen in recent memory would be a dirty drug smuggler. And to have all started as an innocuous bookstore that was only cash operated, making it very helpful in hiding and disguising illegal gains. Very smart of you. But it appears you have gotten careless over the years to have left such a trail of documents to practically make its way to my door.” _

Acery’s lower lip quivered, eyes darting to and fro again, unable to look at Damaris directly, her skin pale and clammy. _ “T-There’s no such evidence. You’re making all this bullshit up.” _

_ “I wonder what would happen if I sent the Empress a letter. She trusts the Valentines. We’ve been there for the royal family for centuries.” _

That seemed to break her. Damaris’ gaze lingered on her as an unspoken threat.

_ “Stop it— I— what do you want?” _ Her voice tapered off into a pathetic hiccup.

_ “I want a great many things,” _ Damaris whispered,  _ “I’d like nothing more than the eradication of false nobles such as you. You are a poison that is weakening Asnain and its people. You are undeserving of the title Matriarch.” _

Before Avery can make so much as a peep, Damaris steps back, her voice becoming less viperous and turning cordial.  _ “Give me a cut of your earnings.” _

_ “Wha—what?” _

_ “Come now, Matriarch Dolloway, try to keep up.” _ With further funding, Damaris can expand the Cult of Acadia to newer heights. Acadia’s influence can be further broadened with this. Loathe as she to admit that having any sort of business relationship with the Dolloways, this is a small sacrifice to make, she muses. All for the greater good.

_ “I haven’t quite decided the percentage yet, perhaps it can be something we can discuss more privately another day,” _ she fakes a low chuckle, _ “Something of an alliance would be quite beneficial to the both of us. Just think, you get to keep your business because of my truly overflowing grace. I do hope you’re grateful.” _

With the final nail on her coffin, Damaris took a sip of her tea before speaking the most casually as she ever has,  _ “Your daughter, Camilla, just turned one recently? Such a cute little thing. Think about her future, Avery. What will she inherit from her dear mother? A booming business, or a jail cell?” _

She left Avery then, stewing in a pot of her own despair and rage. Naturally, a fruitful relationship was indeed born out of that interaction. One that continues to this day.

But that was not the only thing she used the Dolloways for.

Several years later, but before the encroaching war, there was another gathering Damaris took interest in. It was a harmless picnic to introduce several family’s children to one another, potentially already choosing future spouses for them. She had no real reason to be a part of it, since she was from a completely different province from where it was taking part, but she went anyway because Avery so graciously ‘invited’ her.

She watched from the sidelines. Another one of those new merchant families took her interest, initially because the mother and the two children had the most stunning crimson eyes. A rare mutation, apparently, but striking nonetheless. Sources confirmed to her that their fortune was legitimately attained, unlike with Avery. Which was frustrating to a degree. She had hoped they had an easily discovered secret to exploit.

But further observation had gotten her interested. The husband seemed perpetually nervous. Endlessly fiddling with his fingers and nibbling on his lip. Glances to his wife seemed to confirm to Damaris that he wasn’t a victim of domestic violence or anything of the sort— there was genuine adoration in his eyes, and his jitters would temporarily be abated when he spoke to his wife or children. 

So, it would appear that he was just a naturally anxious man who did not enjoy being amongst a crowd of people he presumably did not know.

If she had to hazard a guess, she’d assume it likely wouldn’t take a lot to push him over an edge.

_ “Who are they?” _ Damaris asked.

_ “The von Leventis. They sell carriage equipment from what I understand.”  _ Avery answered.

_ “Hmm… Keep an eye on them.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “Because,” _ Damaris’ finger tapped on the head of her cane,  _ “There may come a day where they get too large for their own good. You should tell your daughter to keep an eye on their son. A scandal can cripple many families.” _

Avery clicked her tongue.  _ “You want me to order my own daughter to do something with their son and then, what, tell everyone he’s a slut?” _

_ “I said nothing of the sort,” _ she patted the woman’s shoulder,  _ “All I said is that your daughter should keep an eye on their son. You have such devious ideas.” _

A scandal would affect their sales, and an overly anxious father would affect their home life. An exceedingly simple solution to rid the Dolloways of competition, and for Damaris to extinguish another undevout family undeserving of their power.

Sensing animosity and reluctance from Avery, she flicked her wrist to idly swing her cane.

_ “Do not forget that I can undo all of your family’s riches with a snap of a finger, Dolloway.” _

And with that, Damaris departed from the picnic.

* * *

“My niece has taken quite the interest in studying history in university. I think she might change majors.” Dr. Kippe comments, standing in front of the bookshelf in Damaris’ office. They had recently discussed Frea’s progress, and now apparently the doctor wishes to make idle chatter.

Castilla Kippe is not from this province, and Damaris only knows her because the two of them had met in university. Having an older sister, Castilla would not become Matriarch of her family, and so she opted to pursue medicine and become a doctor, soon being often hired by Damaris. Even back then, she would notice men skulking around the outskirts of the university, hoping to grab the attention of a woman and flirt. Typical. Noblewomen pursue higher education to get their degrees while men, if given the opportunity, would no doubt only attend classes to achieve a new last name and the title of Mr.

“Mhm,” Damaris responded, reading another letter from that Elader woman. Nothing suspicious again. Just an insipid series of comments about how the medic apparently wants her own Asnainian Great Hound because Diana is a ‘cutie patootie.’

“I started doing my studying of my own. Did you know that ancient Asnainians used to wear masks that represent the inner qualities they strive to cultivate, and one’s physical appearance is known only by the closest of family members, and their significant others? For them, the beauty that Acadia wanted was impossible to achieve, so they covered themselves up.”

Castilla turns, pushing her thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. Damaris rests her chin in her hand.

“Yes, I was aware of that fact,” Damaris said, almost sounding bored.

“I just think it’s interesting how much things change. Obviously, that’s inevitable. Nothing stays the same. The whole mask wearing shebang was mostly Chiayans oppressing Asnainians when they had control of this land, anyway.” Now, she soon looks at the oil painting, making a small noise of interest, “Shouldn’t you technically be the leader of the Cult of Damaris, instead of the Cult of Acadia?”

That gets her attention. She tilts her head, eyes watching Castilla’s back.

“What makes you say that?” She asks casually.

“There're twenty-four deities in the pantheon. One for each province. So each province has a Cult for their patron goddess, but it’s only the Cult of Acadia now. I wonder why that is.”

“Acadia cannot be all powerful if she shares her power with other deities. It was an only natural development. She’s ruling over them.”

Castilla turns, a playful smile playing on her lips. Ah, so this is indeed idle chatter. Damaris allows herself to let her guard down when the woman asks, “Wanna hear a theory I thought of?”   
  


She gestures for the doctor to continue on.

“Okay, so, a religion needs three main things. The three C’s, as I would like to call it. A cult, an authority and a consistent body of rituals for public worship. A code, a set of moral rules. A creed, a canon of shared myths that defines a shared identity. Depending on the authority in charge, commitment to faith as a nation becomes a big deal.”

Damaris quickly begins to wonder about the point of this conversation.

“I think there’s been a bit of falling out between faith and religion, as in, the belief of an individual versus the organization that handles the churches. Many people say they belong to a faith without actually practicing, with the northerners being the most obvious example.”

Yes, Damaris supposes she agrees with that. Certainly a grating issue on its own. Northerners are a particularly bewildering and frustrating sort, both claiming to believe but also unwilling to attend sermons of the missionaries.

“The primary reason people maintain their religious ties without practicing is because they want to maintain that sense of community,” Damaris says, mostly to herself, “They’ll retain certain ceremonies because it is an important place for meeting neighbours and organizing relationships.”

Castilla nods, her smile growing wider, and her short curly hair bouncing atop her head. “Uh huh. I knew my university buddy would get it. See, I'm not certain people necessarily believe all the stories about Acadia and the rest in the pantheon, but they might believe in a more… generalized higher power. Personally, I think the belief in multiple gods dwindling to the belief of one god is a reflection of increasingly self-centered worldviews in civilization. If I was placing a bet, I’d put my money that eventually it’ll dwindle even further until not even Acadia has her grasp on everyone anymore.”

“...Are you truly insinuating there may come a time that there are no devout believers of Acadia?” Her voice is calm, though the weight of the question remains. “Surely I needn’t tell you that such a sentiment can be most disagreeable.”

Her steady gaze remains on Castilla, who in turn blinks and her lips twitch in a slight frown. She shrugs.

“Just making small talk. It’s kind of something I’ve always been interested in, society just changing. I’m not trying to debate with you or anything, just stating a theory I’ve developed from what I’ve read.” Her small grin returns, and she points to her head with a wink. “I’m a woman of science after all, theories are the only thing swimming in this noggin.”

If Castilla was the Matriarch of her family, that may be a cause of concern, but she isn’t. And her family are firmly placed in another province and haven’t so much as made a single visit to Damaris’ territory. Although, she is sometimes a professor at Lullin’s university… But at the same time, Damaris knows she must not be too focused on a single person. She is aware that she should allow people to  _ theorize _ on things, because if she were to begin to quell even classroom discussions that could result in even more tiresome business to take care of. It would put too many eyes on her too quickly.

She has far more important things to focus on, anyhow. Castilla and her discussions will be allowed to exist, but only in… healthy doses. As it stands, it’s harmless conversation, because the doctor isn’t attempting to get a group of like-minded individuals to start protesting and what have you, unlike those Men’s Liberation Movement crowd. Nonetheless, Damaris will need to observe her here and there. She will figure out something later, no doubt. A Valentine always does.

“If we are talking theories,” Damaris says, “Then my original comment remains. Acadia cannot be all powerful if she shares her power with other deities. Her loving embrace can be felt in all corners of Asnain, whether people are earnestly devout or not.”

The doctor shrugs again, saying a quick “Fair enough,” and the two women have a few more exchanges that are decidedly more business-like before Castilla leaves.

Now alone, Damaris taps her desk with her finger slowly. Through the frame of the window comes the warm orange glow of the setting sun. Sparing a final glance at the oil painting, her gaze soon falls on the framed photo of her children, and soon she finds herself ruminating about them again— something that has been occurring with increasing frequency.

Marcus is eighteen in this photo, Nathaniel is fifteen, and Frea is thirteen; the three of them sitting on a sofa together.. Utreau was gradually becoming more disagreeable at this point, and the Empress had been fully preparing for a full-scale conflict. A stressful time for anyone, no doubt, and she is willing to excuse some of her children’s recent behaviour on the toll of having their country recently experience a war, though only to a certain degree.

...But the absolute  _ state _ of the three of them. Goodness gracious. 

It has been through no fault of her own, of course— she did what was demanded of her by providing them with the best opportunities available. Marcus and Nathaniel, while certainly unfortunate, is not that great of a loss. They’re men. Even if Nathaniel has proven himself to be decently talented with his innate focus and weekly excursions in the middle of the night. He may think that she is not aware of what he is doing, but she knows. Admittedly, it  _ did _ take some time for her agents to actually notice him, which is likely due to whatever little divine blood is flowing through him. If only he were born female…

And then there’s Frea. Where has that fire she’s seen her eyes gone? Has it truly been extinguished already? When Damaris had been made aware of the accident she very nearly vomited.  _ Her feet have been blown off?  _ She had thought furiously, stomach twisting into knots,  _ I will fucking kill that Winthrope woman. _

Though soon she calmed herself. Soon she saw it could be a boon. 

Because now she can wring the Winthropes dry. She has to take the opportunities that are presented to her, no matter the cost. And Frea being… like  _ that _ is certainly a cost. To think her own daughter, the  _ heir _ of the illustrious  _ Valentine _ family would be such a pitiful little child. Her voice is barely a ripple in the air, her presence barely discernible. To think she would suggest that she train someone from the Cult and adopt them… Incomprehensible.

The bloodline cannot be  _ broken.  _ That is the entire  _ point. _ This is not how she raised Frea. Her lessons may have waned in Frea’s youth, but that is only when she had proven herself a disappointment time and time again. Everything she had done for her and Acadia’s endless grace was fucking wasted on that  _ stupid brat— _

Her hand clenches, remembering the potential Frea had shown for a split-second when she had become aggressive over that Utritian. When she had threatened to throw herself down the stairs should Damaris have the Utritian removed, and force herself to have a miscarriage if she were to become impregnated. 

It was if she was being allowed a glimpse on what a successful daughter would have looked like. Without aggression there would be no passion, nor great art, nor great leadership. In a perfect world, she would have harnessed that emotion and tamed it, the passion channeled into a love for keeping Asnain devoted to Acadia.

But again, her energy was wasted on something so trivial. A goddamn Utritian.

Briefly, she entertains the idea of simply threatening to kill the man. Though perhaps it would be more fruitful to tell that Winthrope woman to try to convince her. In the end, she decides that she would simply… wait for Frea to be able to walk again. Her mind is weak. Perhaps when she feels as though she is more independent, she will be more agreeable.

And if not, well. 

Her eyes glance at the oil painting.

_ Sometimes the only way to make them see your light is to take everything away from them. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frea, in a future chapter probably: you think kindness doesn't exist you fucking pathetic nihilist? Shut the fuck up mom. Acadia, you're so cringe.
> 
> Anyway, lol, the reason for me writing this interlude was both as an excuse to shove in more worldbuilding/lore but also to humanize Damaris in a way. Like, yeah, she’s the antagonist and an all around delusional nutcase but I want her motivations to make sense. She’s a narcissistic religious zealot and misandrist who’s also convinced herself that she’s some oppressed martyr because Asnainian society is (very) slowly progressing to becoming less religious and more egalitarian. She also likes to only interpret her religion in ways that would specifically benefit her, and is unwilling to see different viewpoints.
> 
> She’s part of a system a lot of people don’t want anymore but because of her upbringing she’s fiercely resistant to such a change, as most nobles are. There is a very defined conflict of interests between the common folk and the nobility. I’m sure I don’t need to mention the countless examples of irl history where such a conflict has occurred. Such a thing is kind of inevitable.
> 
> I didn't want her to be bad for the sake of it (though after writing this it does feel that way now hah). She’s partly a product of her environment/upbringing, and a product of her narcissism; and in turn her shitty non-existent parenting made Frea into a neurotic with a mountain of self-esteem issues. People like her exist, hell, she’s based off several of irl people from history lmao. She’s just an extremist who isn't devoted to religion, she’s devoted to the power of religion, and in her eyes that power is being threatened constantly.
> 
> And sidenote, with the name ‘Cult of Acadia’... I kind of wish I had chosen a different name. This is not me being an unsubtle writer about this being a Big Bad Organization (that was entirely unintentional on my part lmao), I named it that cause I was learning about ancient Greece at the time and they often called their religious groups cults. In this world there is Cult of Acadia, Cult of Damaris, Cult of Theodosia, ect ect, much like how there were individual gods/goddesses cults in ancient Greece. Cult means a group sharing the same belief. Cult is not an innately bad word in this universe, but obviously with the rightfully bad connotations the word has with our modern day… I guess I could have used a better word.
> 
> Double sidenote, I am writing this series with the mind that Acadia and the other deities don’t actually exist. People don’t actually have divine blood. Religion here is obviously being used as a tool to justify the ruling class and the subjugation of the lower class. I wanted to play around with the idea that faith/spirituality can make someone into a better person (in Frea’s case, even though she herself says she’s not very religious. Acadia showing up in her mind was mostly her subconscious manifestation of her desire to make things right. She knew deep down what she was doing was wrong), but it can also make people, well, awful (in Damaris’ case, obviously lol).


	20. Chapter 20

If Frea mulls over past lessons and sermons she’s had, she vaguely remembers being told that men cannot be saints, because only women can reach Acadia’s golden palace that sits on the clouds in the afterlife. Thus, only women can be saints if they are not reincarnated. Men have to hope that in their next lives they are born a woman if they wish to sit among Acadia and her most loyal believers in paradise. 

Frea doesn’t believe in an afterlife, but if there is one, Aidan would probably take the closest seat next to Acadia considering he must be the very embodiment of saintliness; rules of reincarnation be damned. How could he sit there on the bed with her and make the grand, righteous declaration that he forgives her? And that easily?

She isn’t sure she would have forgiven someone if she were in his position.

Her face contorts into an expression that’s between a grimace and a glare that’s decidedly unimpressed. She stares blankly at the series of photos stuck to her ceiling, the room completely silent in the dead of night. Slightly sweaty, she thinks she may have awoken from a nightmare, but the vestiges of the dream are hazy and incoherent. At least whatever it was didn’t have its effect on her like it usually does. All she knows is that she’s awake, alone in her room, and this is an evening where Aidan apparently won’t be visiting her. 

That’s a good thing, she thinks. Everything feels so fresh and… easily broken. Surely she’s not worth the forgiveness—

She frowns, then promptly pinches herself on the cheek.

“Guilt is not a virtue,” she mumbles to herself. Like hell she’s going to whine about what Aidan can and cannot forgive after everything. Why shouldn’t she take this as the second opportunity that’s been so graciously given to her?  _ Just don’t fuck it up, Frea. _

She may not believe in an afterlife, but she’s on the fence when it comes to Acadia. It can’t hurt to send a little message to the goddess if she’s out there.

“Hey, Acadia, if you’re out there… If I ever end up yelling or hitting someone who doesn’t deserve it again, feel free to erase my existence with a quick lightning strike. Thanks.”

With a second pinch on her other cheek, she sits up and inhales deeply to fully wake herself up. Not like she’ll be getting anymore sleep now. Might as well get a game plan going. She’s gotten one step down— though if she remembers correctly she still needs to apologize to Nathaniel— but there’s still more to be done.

“Nowhere to go but up, as they say,” she says with a wry smile. “Now, Lauretta gave me a bucket list… And according to Aidan, Nathaniel has something similar.”

She lights up her bedside lamp, mulling over the list presented to her.

_ Kayaking, camping, shopping, skating when it’s frozen over, skiing, hiking, bug catching, polo, horse riding, visit a museum… _

Frea blows an amused breath.  _ Bug catching? There aren’t even that many insects in Asnain in the first place. And polo? Does Lauretta even know what that is? _

Still, it might be good to see some attractions. Lullin certainly isn’t lacking in those, and it’s been a while since she’s seen any of them. The cathedral is an obvious choice, as is the festival that’s coming up, but there are plenty others with the city being the typical tourist trap. There’s additionally the aptly titled Spire, which is essentially just a tall ornately built tower one can climb up to get a good view of the city in general. It’s not an attraction she’s especially fond of since she merely finds it boring from visiting it countless times as a child, but it would be worth bringing Aidan to it just because she might as well try to see what is and isn’t to his interest.

She continues reading the list, agreeing that a museum might be a good option. She then takes a pencil to circle another option she reads directly afterwards.  _ Visit the aquarium.  _ There is a large facility near the outskirts of the city that houses many marine animals… She enjoyed visiting it.

...Aidan would probably like the aquarium, too.

_ But I don’t think I can visit any of these with a wheelchair. _

Frea furrows her brows together in consternation, staring at legs as though her feet would grow back if she glared at it enough. The more she looks at it, the more she questions something that she  _ probably  _ should already be aware of.

_ How long has it been? _

Evidently, time is an illusion that Frea cannot grasp onto.

Feeling her cheeks warm over not even knowing what month it is anymore, she mulls it over some more. Didn’t Marcus mention something about her getting legs in time for the festival? He did, didn’t he? And she’s already seen a prosthetist, though the woman usually speaks with Dr. Kippe and mother, and Frea hasn’t been kept up to date with that situation. Well, she has, but she’s been barely registering her medical check-ups as of late considering… literally everything else she has to juggle in the disaster that is her mind. The check-ups have been going in one ear and out the other as of late.

_...I should probably pay attention next time. _

Then, another thought.

_ Even if I could walk, would mother even allow me to go anywhere? _

It’s no secret her condition is meant to be hush-hush. Anyone seeing her is ‘inadvisable’, as mother touted. Wouldn’t want the precious reputation of her deranged family lineage to be ruined, now would she?  _ Ugh,  _ she grimaces,  _ I sure wish I’m making my ancestors roll in their grave. Fuck them. _

Frea sighs, leaning back on the headboard and returning her gaze to the list. Sure, Aidan can go to these places with Lauretta and Marcus. Even Nathaniel if he tries hard enough. But…

But she wants to go too.

She doesn’t want to stay cooped up in her estate. Surely, at the very least, she’d allow her to attend the festival? Maybe?

She sighs again, restlessness gnawing at her until the sun rises.

* * *

It’s a tad bit awkward having an old woman stare at you so intently you may think you’re being accused of a crime you didn’t commit. Frea awkwardly shifts where she sits on her bed, feeling as though she’d break out in a cold sweat if she shares eye-contact with Dr. Kippe. Suddenly, the doctor’s thick-rimmed glasses feel vaguely threatening.

“How much sleep have you been getting?” There’s a sternness in Dr. Kippe’s voice Frea isn’t used to hearing. Ah, right. She probably has bags under her eyes now.

“It varies…” She murmurs, “I guess on average it would be two or three hours…”

Her stare softens, sympathy showing in her eyes. “That is less than ideal. Is it… nightmares that are making it difficult to sleep? Maybe you’re still feeling phantom pain?”

Frea’s humourless smile is enough of a reply. She tries to ignore the stony, less than welcoming gaze from mother, who casually leans against the closed door.

“Would you like me to prescribe you some sleeping pills? It’s not a cure for nightmares, nor is it something you should use in excess, but it may help. At the very least it should help you catch up on some extra hours of sleep for the short term.” Dr. Kippe says softly, and Frea can practically feel mother’s discontent from here. 

Mother may begrudgingly accept physical injuries, but when it comes to matters of the mind? Fat chance. That’s just a pitiful weakness that determines one undeserving of servicing Acadia.

_ “Acadia takes it unkindly if we weep too much for any strife we may face in this life; for it is a sign that we do not fetch our comfort from her,” _ One sermon rings out in her head. It’s a sentiment she now finds quite aggravating,  _ “Nay, though our weeping be for sin, we must keep moderation. We must keep our minds strong, for if we do not, we are telling Acadia we do not trust her benevolence.” _

The more she thinks it over, the more she thinks  _ Acadia wouldn’t actually feel that way,  _ a thought she knows that some would potentially consider ill-considered, so she keeps it to herself. The goddess would be more like in her dream, surely. She doesn’t have a gripe with Acadia per say… Frea is simply realizing that she’s beginning to have issues with the Church as an entity. 

She wonders how different the sermons in Lullin are in comparison to sermons in the other provinces.

_ Of course mother is ruining Acadia of all things for everyone else with whatever meddling she does with the Church,  _ she thinks derisively, and her expression hardens.

Dr. Kippe, ever the mediator, is clearly sensing a potential argument between mother and daughter about to brew if Frea opens her mouth, and she turns her head to the Valentine Matriarch. “We can discuss more about her prescriptions and the medication she’s currently taking in your office. It’s not a decision we have to make immediately, but it is also something we need to take seriously.”

Along with sympathy, there is now pity in the doctor’s eyes when she looks back at Frea. Quickly deciding she’s in no state whatsoever to be discussing religion with her bullheaded mother— really, doing so would probably be the equivalent to talking to a brick wall— Frea opts to bring up another topic that weighs heavy in her head. 

“Mother, regarding the Martyrs’ Festival that is quickly coming up… May I attend it with everyone else—”

“Of course.”

She blinks, momentarily thinking she needs to pinch herself awake from this befuddling dream.

“You’ve recovered adequately.” Mother says blankly, and Dr. Kippe shares her look of cautious disbelief.

“Wha…” Frea starts, then clears her throat. “What happened to… reputations and stuff like that? About how the state of me will reflect poorly on the Valentines?”

“Are you implying that you do not actually wish to attend the festival?”

“N-No! I would love to attend! I just— I just thought you’d be against it. Like what about when we went to the cathedral? It was all secretive and…”

Mother lifts a brow, something that feels like a facsimile of actual human emotion. “I was merely protecting you. And I will continue to protect you so that you may enjoy the festival. It is not as though I ever said I’d never let you outside. That would be absurd.” A pause, and Frea feels that cold sweat she was hoping to avoid begin to form on her back. 

“You know I only want the best for you, don’t you, Frea?”

Is it fatigue? Or the whirlwind of everything that’s been happening? Frea’s mind becomes a mix of unease and suspicion with only one question ringing out in her head:  _ what the hell? _

At the lack of her verbal response, mother steps away from the wall, nodding towards Dr. Kippe and idly twirling her cane like she usually does.

“Castilla, we’ll have that discussion in my office now.”

The doctor shoots Frea one final sympathetic smile before responding. “Yes, of course. Please have Saskia fetch the portable tub.” She looks back at Frea, “Good to get washed up and replace your bandages while we’re at it, hmm? And the prosthetist will be arriving shortly to take more measurements again.”

Frea feels her jaw tense slightly, but nods anyway. She’s not quite sure how to take the fact that her doctor and mother are deciding to discuss the possibility of her having extra medication without her, but that’s likely due to the fact that mother’s opinion of her is likely lower than the deepest trench in the ocean. It just makes her parent’s earlier quips sound all the more bitter in her ears.

When mother and Dr. Kippe leaves, Saskia soon enters with the portable tub. She’s been using this more frequently seeing how it’s more convenient than having to go up the stairs. The bathrooms for her family are on the second floor, while the servant’s are on the first floor. Mother doesn’t like the idea of Frea using the servant’s quarters, so she’s been either carried up the stairs and using this portable tub.

She remembers when she first needed assistance to bath, the humiliation seared through her like a knife, and she had to fight back tears. Now, she clearly divests herself of her clothing without much thought over how there is someone else in the room. The warmth of the water is a welcoming sensation, and she props her stumps on the rim of the tub.

The scar tissue is a slightly darker shade than her skin tone, twisting and turning like a random basketweave and ending just below her knees. It’s a lingering source of shame and anxiety she isn’t sure she’ll ever truly overcome, but perhaps one day these injuries may one day be a source of… pride, somewhat. 

Pride for what she had overcome and a roadmap of where she’s come from.

She lips twitch when she feels Saskia’s hand gentle card through her hair as she applies shampoo.

_ What a pointlessly romantic sentiment. _

Maybe as pointlessly romantic as having a bucket list of places to visit. Or maybe she needs to stop being so pessimistic, though that’s decidedly difficult since she can’t quite shake the feeling that mother has some weird ulterior motive.

_ “You know I only want the best for you, don’t you, Frea?” _

Ugh, gross.

Despite Saskia’s protests, Frea fully submerges herself in the water for a quick few seconds.

Mother easily granting her permission to go outside does not make her feel more confident in anything. It simply discourages her from leaving the estate.

* * *

“I… Shucks, kid. You didn’t have to.”

Aidan smiles widely watching Esme inspect her gift, the brown and white glass figurine shining whenever it hits an angle of light. She looks at it at every corner, her own smile growing wonder though a perplexing glint of concern in her eyes never quite leaves her. “An Emesviel Mountain Dog, huh? They call these working dogs. Apparently they go out and find people lost in the mountains or buried in an avalanche. I wonder if they’d be good at finding missing soldiers still in Utreau.”

_ <I got this because it reminded me of you. The label said they’re devoted, intelligent, and brave. And I got myself something, so don’t worry!!> _ Aidan signs proudly, then moves his pawn to continue the chess game he and Esme are currently playing. For the first time, Master is with them in his room, though she mainly busies herself with dismantling her camera and cleaning the small parts. It’s been a few days since he had said he has forgiven her, and she’s definitely been making the effort to seek him out more often, though the air of awkwardness is… palpable.

Esme huff, scratching her cheek, apparently bashful and a little embarrassed— but in a good way!— over receiving a gift like this. Is she entirely unused to receiving much of anything? That won’t do. He should get her even more things then.

“Didn’t take you as such a flatterer. Thanks, kid. I’ll enshrine this on my work desk so I’m looking at it,” she says with a slight chuckle, moving her own chess piece forward. “Checkmate.”

If he had been drinking something, he probably would have spat it out. A hint of warmness invades his cheeks when he looks at the board, he only had two pawns, a knight and his king and queen left, with his king being stationed at c1. Esme has a rook at c2, and a knight and bishop at c3 and b3 respectively. Agh! A checkmate was inevitable! He wasn’t paying attention to the positioning of his vulnerable king… Must have been too distracted with giving Esme her gift… Yeah, that’ll be his excuse.

He sighs, fully conceding his defeat once again. He’s never once won against her. Although, he takes pride in the fact that this game was in total about 38 moves, which is the longest game he’s ever had with Esme as a serious player.

Master takes the moment to raise a questioning brow as she inspects the board. “Hey, shouldn’t you go a little easier on him?”

“He’ll never get better then. Besides, he’s been great progress. I’m willing to bet good money that he’s well on his way to becoming the first male chess Grandmaster, I’m sure of it. Whenever you’re up for it, you should absolutely sign up for a competition. And if not that, he’ll be a great artist! Hopefully both!” Esme leans in, “Now, let’s go over a review of the game so I can tell you what went wrong.”

Master, for a brief moment, looks as though she wants to protest something. Likely to do with the fact that men aren’t allowed to enter chess competitions in the first place— Esme had ranted about that previously, and had crudely stated  _ ‘fuck the rules.’ _ Master does not say anything about that, and Esme then goes into the review of the match.

As she always does, she goes into depth with an explanation of every move the two of them did during the match, and Aidan has taken up the habit of writing down notes of what she says to study later. Master’s eyes widen at what she says, and her lips twitch upwards.

“Let me guess, you taught chess on the side when not working?”

“Yes, rarely, seeing how I always worked.” Esme laughs, “When I was in university I was president of the chess club. Won a couple of competitions myself, and taught my daughter and her friends whenever I had the down time.”

Esme continues her explanation, with Master occasionally interjecting with her own comments. Before he realizes it, Aidan stops taking notes, a warmth blooming in his chest just simply watching the two women connect over something. It’s a warmth that supersedes the feeling that formed when Esme called him a future chess Grandmaster. 

Maybe one day he could enter a competition for himself. He doesn’t know. But what he does know is that seeing those around him comfortable and be friends is more of a priority to him than any achievement in chess ever could be.

But he knows if he signed that, both women would probably give him a bit of a weird look. 

_ Selfish,  _ he thinks. They want him to be more selfish, but how much is too much? 

And does he even want to be more selfish? He isn’t sure. He bought an elephant ornament for himself, and that felt like it was enough. He thinks it would be better to enter a chess competition purely  _ because  _ Esme wants him to. It would make her happy, but at the same time such a thought makes him feel a little strange.

Esme’s voice takes him out of his thoughts. “Speaking of teaching Aidan some things…” She smirks furtively at Master, “You should teach him how to use a camera.”

Master’s shoulders tense, and she rubs the back of her neck with pursed lips. She looks at him, and fully sets up her camera.

“Ah… um, there’s not much to teach. It’s quite simple.” She pushes the camera towards him on the table, and she points out some of its parts. “This is the lens. You basically point at whatever you want to take a picture of with this, and this little window looking thing,” she turns the camera around, “Is the viewfinder. You look through this. I know it might seem impossible to look through something so small but it’ll be fine. This little knob at the top here zooms in and out, and this one helps with the focus so the picture doesn't come out blurry. You take the picture by pressing this button here.”

She snorts with a self-deprecating grin. “I’m not sure if I’m explaining this properly. I guess I was never destined to be a teacher. Anyway, maybe you should hold it and look around the viewfinder to get a feel for the thing.”

Aidan nods, his fingers briefly touching hers when he takes it, and unlike when they played Cat’s Cradle she quickly pulls her hands back. He knows it’s not as though she thinks him too dirty to touch, or anything like that. She said sorry, and he had forgiven her, and it’s even been a few days since then… but he knows this sense of awkwardness may remain for a while longer.

_ These things take time,  _ he can practically hear his father say. He misses hearing father’s voice.

He fiddles with it, bringing it up to his face to look through the viewfinder. Aidan can’t see a thing at first due to it being so blurry, like steam in front of glasses. He moves the knob to zoom and focus, and while it takes him a few tries he is eventually able to see both Master and Esme through the lens.

Esme leans back on her chair, her eyes soft as she looks at the two of them. Her small smile is… reminiscent of when father would sometimes look at him.  _ Fatherly,  _ he thinks, though he supposes it would be more accurate to say motherly instead. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have a mother. Maybe it’s the same as having a father.

It’s a nice feeling.

Once everything is framed the way he wants it, his finger goes to the button, and Master grins crookedly and Esme brings up her hand, two of her fingers with her index and middle fingers raised and parted to make a V shape while the other fingers are clenched. 

He hears a click when he presses down on the button, and he looks down excitedly at the camera. Oh, maybe this is something he can get framed, perched on the bedside table, right next to his elephant ornament.

“Uh,” Master clears her throat, “I probably should have mentioned that there’s no film in the camera right now. Sorry. But hey, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to take photos next time!”

Her expression is sheepish, though it’s with a hint of laughter in her tone. 

Esme chuckles, and Aidan finds himself joining in despite his inability to actually vocalize anything. Fre— Master then tells him more about the camera, and Esme sets up a new chess game though also mentions that he should get some drawing practice done in a not-so-subtle attempt to get him to potentially teach what he knows to Master.

It is comfortable to simply…  _ exist  _ like this. Even though the bags under both women's eyes makes him worry, even though the future still seems uncertain, even though he wonders if he can be truly successful in having everyone connect… He likes these small moments, and he cherishes them immensely.

After some time, losing again to Esme and showing Master some of his sketches, Esme looks up at the clock on the wall. 

“I’ve already spoken with your mother, and I imagine your brother must be coming back from his dog walk soon. I’d rather not get forcefully kicked out again because I suck ass at time management, so I’ll be heading out.” 

She stands, Aidan doing the same and wanting to protest and urge her to stay longer, while Master opens her mouth to say her regards. However, Esme makes another comment before the both of them.

“Frea,” she puts a hand on Master’s shoulder, “take this as an order from your beleaguered commanding officer. Eat three meals a day. Get a good amount of sleep everyday. Stay healthy.” She glances at Aidan, “The same goes for you, though I’m not your commanding officer. Take it as a suggestion from a beleaguered old woman then, heh.”

Master pinches her brows together, and Esme continues.

“This also applies to the both of you, but whenever you’re physically able, I recommend that you do simple chores. Like washing the dishes, doing the laundry, or what have you. I know you have servants for that and are limited in what you can actually do, Frea, but believe me when I say that one of the best forms of self-care is responsibility. It’ll make you feel better and accomplished.”

Both Master and Aidan blink, and Master crosses her arms together with a frown.

“When you say it like that it makes it sound like this will be the last I’ll ever see of you.”

Esme throws her head back a bark of laughter. “Hah! Yeah, guess you have a point about that. Reminds me of that one thing my classmates always talked about in my literature class back in school… what is it… Ah, right, death flags? I’m not waving my death flag, I swear! Besides, I need to stay alive for Aidan to take a picture of me,” She huffs with a grin, “Just have a lot on my mind and felt like I needed to get it out sooner rather than later.”

Her expression hardens then, her next words coming off more like a bitter murmur. “Acadia knows your own mother isn’t giving you sound advice in the slightest.”

Esme then ruffles Master’s hair, and nods towards Aidan. The three of them make their way to the main foyer, and when Esme stands at the doorway she makes her final comment.

“Not that I’ve ever heard either of you doing this,  _ but”  _ she waggles her finger, “I don’t want to be hearing any self-deprecating jokes from either of you. It’s not healthy. We’re only about being kind to ourselves in this house now, got it? Take it as another order from your commanding officer.”

“Something tells me you’re speaking from experience now.” Master hedges, her voice somewhat hesitant.

“And you would be correct,” Esme replies, a silent understanding passing over between the two women. “Maybe I’m getting up there in age, but I keep worrying about everything. Again, I just had something on my mind and I had to say it. You two kids take care of yourselves. I’ll see you later.”

With a final soft, yet hesitant, smile she does a mock salute and departs with two guards escorting her, and the door closes. Aidan thinks he knows what’s going on. Everyone is in a better spot, no doubt, but Esme remains in a position where she is unsure of what she is doing is enough. 

Master is not the only person who needs to forgive herself over what happened.

“I don’t understand why Esme still needs to leave whenever Marcus is around,” Master says while rubbing her temples, “I doubt he even has her daughter on his mind anymore. Knowing him he’d probably give her a respectful greeting before locking himself in his room because he’d worry he’s the one being rude or an inconvenience.”

_ <...It’s sad he would feel that way,> _ Aidan signs, and Master yawns.

“Uh huh. Yeah. But I guess it’s hard for him to get over something like that considering how he was raised. Ah, sorry, hopefully that didn’t come off as like I don’t care. I do. I’m just… tired.”

Another yawn, and she blinks heavily.

“I need to take a nap.”

Aidan’s back straightens in attention.  _ <I will help you to bed. And don’t worry, I will take care of Marcus today.> _

She quirks a bemused brow at that, “Yeah? How so?”

_ <We will make lanterns together for the festival. I want to try to get Nathaniel to join, and to get him out of his room. It’ll be something new and different for him, I think.> _ He steps behind her chair, beginning to push it towards her room, the eyes of the various mounted animal heads on the wall seeming to follow their every move. There are servants further down the hall doing some dusting and cleaning.

“Yeah… that might be healthy for him. If anything it’ll certainly keep them both busy at least. I know I said I’d help out with what you’re doing. So next time, just give me the word and I’ll do what I can.” They enter her room, and Aidan makes quick work of pulling back her bedsheets and pouring a glass of water from the water jug placed on her bedside table, and he puts her camera away. 

“Ah, I can get on the bed myself.” And she does quite seamlessly, a testament of her experience at this point of how easily she manages to transfer her body to the mattress without much trouble. She then takes a new set of pills he hasn’t seen before.

Aidan shifts on his feet, not wanting to leave just yet, and it takes him more effort than he expected to not just kneel in front of her bed then and there. Or at least not kneel in the corner to be there for whenever she wakes up. A part of him wants to do some cleaning in her already immaculate room so he has an excuse to remain, despite his already established plans.

So he signs quickly to take care of his restlessness.

_ <Please have a nice dream, Master.> _

There’s a twitch in her expression, but she nods while glancing at the pictures taped on the ceiling. “I’ll try. Thank you.”

He definitely prefers it when she says thank you instead of sorry. He bows, something that Saskia and other servants have said he needs to do more often, and exits her room.

But not before taking one final peek at her as she settles in her bed. 

* * *

When he enters Nathaniel’s room, he finds the man lying on the floor completely engrossed in drawing something in his sketchbook. He doesn’t seem to hear when Aidan politely knocks on the door to get his attention.

So Aidan then patiently waits for him to finish, deciding to read some pages from the book he bought for him to pass the time. When Nathaniel does notice him, after a good couple of minutes, he sits up with a grin.

“Oh, hey. I think this the first time you came in here during the day. Wanna draw? Good thing I didn’t have a schedule for today other than drawing, so I’m not actually that bothered by you showing up. Feels kind of nice, actually.” 

That makes him feel a little guilty about what he’s about to ask of him, but first, he should present his gift.

_ <This is for you, since you like to read.> _

Nathaniel looks at with curious eyes, and Aidan realizes he picked the right title when his smile widens.  _ Yes, good. He didn’t already have that book,  _ he thinks happily. 

“Dasir, huh,” Nathaniel says, “I read in a book that it’s a desert in the east, where the sands shift and make people go mad when they get lost. Ah, but in a  _ different _ book, of course. I haven’t read this one yet. I’ve always wanted to read more since I’ve heard of it ‘cause you know, I don’t like not knowing.”

Aidan smiles, though he doesn’t move to sit down like the other man clearly expects him to. He signs again, unsure if he needs to be hesitant of this in the first place. All he’s going to do is ask him to go to his brother’s room with him. 

_ <Marcus and I will make lanterns in his room. I would like it if you could join.> _ ...That’s a bit more forward than he’s used to…  _ <If you want to, that is.> _

Nathaniel’s lips twitch downwards. “Oh. Hmm. I don’t usually go to that part of the house,” he shifts his body in discomfort. “I don’t know… that seems a bit too… new.”

Aidan can certainly understand his aversion to new and different things, he’s had his fair share of terrible memories from being forced into new environments… but…  _ But. _

Surely there is no harm to going to his brother’s room. Not only that, Aidan has promised himself to help Nathaniel connect with his siblings, and for him to be more comfortable with doing new things. He doesn’t want Nathaniel’s life to be dominated by these flimsy schedules that doesn’t allow him to truly  _ live—  _ and he knows the man in front of him feels the same way.

He’s just scared. And Aidan understands that all too well.

Aidan kneels so that he is no longer standing over Nathaniel. His smile and eyes are soft when he signs. 

_ <I want to be on your side.> _ Something changes in Nathaniel’s expression. Something akin to a realization, perhaps.  _ <This can act as the first step of you being able to go outside in the day. And I know Marcus would love to make lanterns with you.> _

His reluctance remains palpable, and he nibbles on his lower lip, his fingers going over his knuckles. “Can I bring my sketchbook in case I don’t like making lanterns…?”

_ <Of course. Whatever will make you feel more comfortable.> _

It’s… baby steps. He thinks that’s something father would say, even though Aidan now feels strange thinking himself anything close to paternal to Nathaniel. Friends, obviously, but also more like… brothers—

His breath catches his throat, and he hides it with a soft cough, feeling his cheeks become warmer. That was an embarrassing thought, wasn’t it? Or maybe it wasn’t? But why does he suddenly feel so flustered…?

“Uh, do you have a fever?”

Aidan shakes his head vigorously, using his signing hands to hide his face.

_ <I’m fine! Do you want to go now???> _

He may have signed far too many question marks, but a bemused huff only makes his cheek feel even warmer.

“You’re really weird sometimes,” Nathaniel stands with his sketchbook in hand, “Anyway, I think I can try going to Marcus’ room… Might take me awhile before I can actually make any lanterns. I read in a book that people need to decompress sometimes.”

Evidently, ‘decompress’ means Nathaniel fidgeting in front of his room’s door, looking incredibly nervous while rubbing his knuckles. But that’s okay. Aidan waits for him again, taking the moment for his own nerves to calm down. 

After a minute or two, and a long sigh from Nathaniel, the two of them then make their way to Marcus’ room. It’s something exceedingly simple, but for Aidan, it feels like a grand victory.

* * *

Marcus also seems in the habit of reading, except unlike thick hardcover books, he has a slew of newspapers and magazines. Everything is neatly stacked, and Aidan spots colourful bookmarks in the pages of a lot of them. The walls are cream, and upon them are no paintings or photos, instead there are framed hair wreaths. All intricately designed, and he knows it’s made of the hair of generations of Valentines. Some are weaved to look like flowers, pinecones, others are like a crown. Aidan’s taken up art and chess, and now photography it would seem, surely it can’t hurt to learn how to weave hair together! He should ask sometime!

The floor is a dark walnut, and the room as a whole almost reminds Aidan of a forest canopy and the gnarled bark of the trunks with its dark green accents and rich velvet curtains that remind him of moss. 

And in the middle of it, are the crafts needed to create a series of lanterns, along with some embroidered pillows for sitting. 

“Ah,” Marcus cracks a grin, “I didn’t expect Nathaniel to join us! How exciting. Please, take a seat on the floor. I’ll go get us some refreshments.” He exits with a skip in his step, clearly excited, and Aidan smiles.

Nathaniel kicks away a pillow, opting to sit on the floor, and Aidan finds himself too curious to take a seat just yet. He takes a peek at the newspaper and magazines, not opening any of them, just simply looking at the covers and front page stories. Some magazines seem focused on male hygiene and hair care, while most of them seem to be different volumes of the same thing,  _ ‘Men & The Home: Asnain’s Premier Homecare and Needlework Magazine.’  _ Next to them are various opened envelopes, all with similar correspondence.

_ Men & The Home Magazine Pattern Department.  _

_ Here is your new Laurence Reid Pattern.  _

_ Another beautiful, sure-to-please design for your needlecraft pleasure. Follow our exclusive Laurence Reid Feature regularly for the newest in needlework design. Can be used for crochet, knitting, and hair wreathing. If you have ordered two or more patterns, please be advised that they may not arrive at the same time because they are mailed in separate envelopes.  _

There are designs for some doilies, a crochet rug and a hair wreath styled like small birds perched upon a branch; all with detailed instructions. They look quite complicated, and he’s never quite considered how much work these things seem to take. He doesn’t think he’s ever given Marcus enough credit before.

The newspapers, however, are less than… inviting.

_ If a man needs it, should he be spanked?  _ postulates one newspaper dated from two weeks ago. The content frankly bothers him, so he doesn’t read it, eyes going to another story.

_ Bicycles  _ — _ are they a danger to a man’s fertility? _

_ Often called ‘boneshakers’ due to the vibrations a rider experiences when they pedal, bicycles are now the topic of a new controversy: As more men learn to ride, many fear it may negatively impact their fertility. Experts posit that the vigorous motions along with the awkward design of the seat may potentially cause damage to a man’s testicles. _

Aidan stops reading there, now glancing at an article in a different separate newspaper.

_ PRINCE ADRIEN SAUNIER’S MARRIAGE _

_ He Has to Obey Just Like Other Men _

_ The Soilès Palace, Emesviel, Month of Seo  _ — _ The High Prince and Baron Harmonie Peletier have bound themselves by the marriage contract in accordance with the statutes to recognize the wife as the head of the matrimonial union, despite the difference in nobility rank. The wife assumes the responsibility of representing the husband in all civil actions. The husband promises to obey the wife, but by a special recent act of the Emesvialian parliament he is exempted from the usual promise to dwell with her wherever she deems it best to live. _

Marcus has… interesting reading tastes. 

Though something else captures his attention then, another newspaper by the looks of it but it is buried beneath the others. Aidan is only able to read the title of the paper, and he sees it’s called  _ ‘Men’s Voice’— _

A large hand practically smacks down on the papers, making Aidan shoulders jump at the sudden movement. He swivels his head around, seeing Marcus loom over him with probably the most forced smile he thinks he’s ever seen on a man. His other hand holds a silver platter of tea, biscuits and other pastries.

“Why don’t we take a seat on the pillows and enjoy ourselves?” Marcus says.

Flustered, Aidan immediately signs an apology.

_ <S-Sorry. It was rude of me to pry without asking if it was okay to look around.> _

Marcus’ expression softens, also looking apologetic now. “O-Oh, it’s not like that. They’re just out in the open anyway. I just really want to start making some lanterns. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

He says that, but judging by his initial response Aidan is  _ quite  _ sure that he saw something he was not meant to. However, with Nathaniel glancing at them with feigned disinterest and his plan of just having a good time, he decides to promptly drop the topic in order for everyone to enjoy themselves.

Unfortunately, Nathaniel doesn’t seem to feel the same way, since he brings it up when the two of them sit down.

“So what are you hiding, Marcus?”

“I’m— I’m not hiding anything. All I did was usher Aidan to our spot so we could begin.”

“Your reply was more forced than the smile you just had,” Nathaniel’s lips curl in a smirk, “I read in a book that means you’re hiding something. Are you reading something you’re not supposed to?”

“Come now, like I said, they’re all out in the open. Why would I put something I’m not supposed to read on my desk for all to see? Again, I’m not hiding anything, a-and it really isn’t anything that should concern you anyhow.”

He shrugs, “Hey Aidan, what did you see—”

Aidan is about put his hands together in an X in an attempt to dissuade Nathaniel from prying further, but the loud  _ clink  _ of a teacup being placed on a saucer with far too much force stops him. Frankly, he half expected Marcus’ cup to shatter with how angrily he did that, and some tea had spilled over onto the floor.

“I was given a single issue of a newspaper called Men’s Voice. It’s— It’s merely a passing interest and the only reason I have it is because a commoner forced it upon me one time I was walking Diana.” He sputters quickly, fingers clenching. The way he says it makes it sound like he’s trying to force sandpaper up his throat. “It’s not even a passing interest, actually. It’s a ludicrous paper that I intend to use as fodder for the fireplace.”

Aidan stares, slack-jaw, and Nathaniel eyes widen slightly. Then, a slight creak outside the door makes Marcus grimace sharply.

“...Ah. A servant must’ve been listening in.” Nathaniel comments, something that makes Marcus hold his head in his hands in apparent anguish.

“And now they’re going to tell mother. I should have just said it was fireplace fodder instead of everything else. Why did I have to say I had any interest in it? She’s going to hit my palms with a ruler again.” He lets out a long, high-pitched whine, hands falling to his lap. Marcus’ brows pinch together, lips twitching downwards when he whispers at his brother angrily.

“Why did you have to go and interrogate me?! You could have just dropped it and then I wouldn’t get in trouble!”

Nathaniel frowns, but he isn’t able to get a word in before Marcus speaks again.

“Oh, allow me to guess, you just don’t like not knowing things. That gives you an excuse to pry in people’s business, isn’t it? I knew you would have just kept asking me constantly like when we were younger so I had to say something so the guard wouldn’t tell mother I was hiding anything bad…” He rubs his forehead, “But then I went ahead and said something stupid that’ll make her angry anyway.”

“It’s not  _ my  _ fault you flubbed your answer.”

“No, but it is your fault that I had to say  _ anything!”  _ Marcus slams his fist on the floor, “When will you learn that you don’t have to know everything! Some people’s business are not yours to know, Nathaniel!”

Nathaniel huffs indignantly. “You always want me to do stuff with you but here I am and now you’re getting all pissy.” He rubs his knuckles quickly, breath coming in short bursts as he staunchly keeps his gaze on the floor.

“And? What does that have to do with anything? That doesn’t mean you can get into my affairs when I explicitly tell you to stop being so nosy! You’re— You’re so rude sometimes!”

Aidan’s eyes dart between the two brothers who sit across from one another. Marcus isn’t even yelling, and yet his voice is like a hammer smashing down onto his eardrums. Aidan suddenly takes on a pale look, as if he'd been painted with white-wash as the tension, stress and even  _ dread _ bubbles up within him. It’s like the walls are beginning to close in on him, and without even thinking about it he propels himself forward to get in between them, signing vigorously.

_ <L-L-Let’s start making some lanterns!!> _

Not that that’s very successful in the slightest. Nathaniel stands, sketchbook in hand and gaze still trained on the floor.

“You didn’t tell me to stop at all,” he mutters out harshly, before uttering out a soft series of  _ ‘I don’t know’s  _ when he quickly exits the room with hasty steps. Aidan has since learned he repeats that phrase whenever he feels overwhelmed, and while his heart sinks at the sight, he can’t quite leave Marcus alone after such a failure of a get together.

Warily, and apologetically, he glances at the older brother.

_ <...I’m sorry. It was my fault for looking.> _

Aidan’s body droops meekly as the guilt weighs down on him. He can’t help but wonder what father would do in a situation like this, but his mind remains unhelpfully blank. How could he have messed up this early…

To his surprise, Marcus puts his hand on his shoulder as he smiles weakly. “Don’t… Don’t beat yourself up about it. It was between me and Nathaniel anyway, not you. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be alone for now. Mother will likely be calling me to her study to scold me soon anyway…”

And that simple serves to make Aidan feel even more guilt. Though, his mind harkens back to what Nathaniel said, and like a light flickering on in a dark room he realizes something that may prove to be important.

_ <I think you should speak more frankly with Nathaniel. Tell him to stop when he does something you don’t like.> _

Marcus makes a face that’s between a scowl and a look of surprise. “I  _ did.  _ How could I have possibly made it more obvious I wanted him to shut up?” He frowns, hands clenching together. “...Sorry, that was probably rude of me to say.”

While, yes, it was fairly apparent Marcus wanted to drop the topic… Aidan also thinks it’s a bit unfair to assume that Nathaniel should have been able to understand something like that the same way they do.  _ “You didn’t tell me to stop at all,”  _ Nathaniel had said, and he’s technically correct, leading Aidan to believe he knows the crux of the issue.

_ <Use the word stop next time. Tell him you’re uncomfortable. You need to be frank and to the point.> _

Marcus lets out a slow breath between his teeth, running a hand through his hair. “Frank and to the point,” he smiles mirthlessly, “You know, they teach you to be the exact opposite in etiquette school. They say it’s unbecoming for a man to be too blunt.”

Ah. There are certainly a lot more hurdles that Aidan didn’t really think about…

_ <It’s not your fault,> _ he reassures,  _ <I’m sure you two will be able to understand one another soon.> _

Leaning back, Marcus soon lays on the floor on his back with another sigh. “I shall endeavour to remember your words then. I don’t  _ want _ to be a bad brother to Nathaniel… I’ll... I’ll try harder next time,” his eyes are apologetic, “And we’ll make lanterns properly next time, whenever that may be. Thank you for your advice, Aidan.”

Aidan, signing more reassurances to Marcus and intending to check up on Nathaniel. However, before that, another idea snakes its way into his head. Getting the two brothers to connect for today may have been a dud— but he won’t give up!! Not by a long shot!— but perhaps he can help the older brother with someone else who’ll be coming over... 

He manages a small, inviting smile, and hopes that at the very least this will help alleviate whatever stress Marcus must be feeling.

_ <If you have time later today, would you like to bake some cookies with me?> _

* * *

“Y’see, horses are just carnage. Lemme tell ya, I once rode one and ran over, like, at least three mailboxes, and one person, too. Who was my brother, and if that wasn’t enough he also broke his arm. Just an absolute shitshow.” Lauretta weaves her tale of death and destruction with great energy, her general disdain for horses becoming daily apparent, and Frea chuckles at the overly theatrical display. “So personally I can’t wait for these automobile thingies some people chatter about ‘cause I bet they’re easier to handle than some horse with a shit temper.”

A light breeze passes over them, making the branches of the tree they sit under sway gently. There is a small plate of food between them, along with a newspaper that Lauretta had been reading earlier. The birds of Marcus’ aviary can be heard, and Frea fiddles with her camera, as she often does when the two of them relax in the garden. She’s off her chair, too, taking the opportunity to lie next to Lauretta on the picnic blanket.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a horse that kicked you and made you lose one of your teeth, instead of a sheep? You seem to have quite the vendetta against them.”

The look Lauretta gives Frea is one of a great epiphany.

“Oh my god, maybe it  _ was _ a horse. To think I’ve been blamin’ sheep this whole time! I should’ve known, sheep would never betray me like that.”

“The horse probably kicked you because that vest is an affront to Acadia. I mean seriously, lime green and washed out pink?” She points her camera towards, looking through the viewfinder. “In fact I should take a photo to document such a hideous garment.”

Lauretta reels back in mock offense, “You’re one to talk! You wear the same fugly lilac jacket thing every day!”

Frea snaps her photo with a  _ click,  _ though she mostly took the picture out of befuddlement than anything else. 

“F-Fugly? And I do not!”

“You do too!”

“I wear different clothes!”

The two women break out in a series of giggles, with Lauretta joyously smacking her knee and nearly choking on her orange juice. After a moment, Frea lists a brow.

“What does fugly mean?”

“Fuckin’ ugly.”

“Hah!” Frea snorts inelegantly, Somehow I knew you’d come up with something so crude.” She glances down on her jacket, “Is it really so ugly, though?”

“If you wore that in the north you’d get beaten up.” Lauretta says with a joking grin. She rolls on her stomach, poking at the cookies on the plate. They are, in a word… charred. Frea is frankly impressed the servants delivered this to them in the first place. “Not as ugly as these things, though. I think we’d better off using these cookies as a doormat.”

Curiously though, amongst the cookies is a glass cardinal ornament. It’s a quirky looking thing, what with it having a tophat and a monocle. It looks expensive, and Frea is fairly certain this is one of those gifts Aidan intends to give out, but why is it here?

Simply out of a desire to keep her hands busy— taking a nap evidently gave her more energy than she expected— she frames the cardinal amongst the cookies with a camera, and takes a photo. She then surveys the yard with her viewfinder.

“I’m sure Martys’ Festival is all fine and dandy and all that,” Lauretta quips, “But y’know what sounds  _ real  _ cool? This festival they do on the isles. Think they call it Day of All Souls or somethin’ like that. It’s like a harvest thing durin’ the summer, and they dress up all spooky like ‘cause they say they gotta scare away spirits that wanna take away their food

“They decorate their houses too. Gotta make shit creepy, y’know? I think my decoration would just be a single knife taped on the ceiling that could fall at any second, ‘cause we all could use a lil’ excitement in our lives.”

“Lauretta, are you insane?” Frea asks sarcastically with a laugh. She continues looking through the viewfinder, zooming in when she spots two figures. She quickly infers that it’s two men, one average height, and the other being a fair bit taller. They both stand next to the mansion.

_ Hmm? Is that Marcus and Aidan? _

She focuses with her camera, and upon seeing one gesticulating vigorously and excitedly she can definitely confirm that that’s Aidan, then the other taller one starts to make his way towards them. His broad chest and black and white suit then confirm that it’s her eldest brother. She sets her camera on her lap as he comes closer and when she glances to where Aidan just was, seeing the spot conspicuously empty.

Except when she swears she spots him peeking around the corner of a wall, before disappearing again.

_...Huh? _

Marcus reaches them, and he seems somewhat haggard. His eyes are… sad, and Frea thinks she sees a hint of redness at the corners. She then realizes that he is hiding more redness with the use of cosmetics, some sort of cream that matches his skin tone. 

“Lady Elader,” he greets with a halfhearted bow, “I hope you’ve been well.”

“Yeah, I’ve been swell.” Lauretta replies noncommittally.

And immediately, the awkward atmosphere makes Frea clear her throat.

Shifting on his feet, and bringing his hands forward to reveal a glass figurine of a drunken sailor, which just promptly makes Frea think of another series of  _ Huh? Huuuh? Huuuuuuh? _

“I was told to give you a gift. Um, from Aidan.”

Realization flickers on Lauretta’s expression, and she picks up the cardinal ornament. “Oh yeah, he told me to give you this when I came over. Practically accosted me the second I came in the door, heh. Here.”

The two of them exchange the gifts, now both looking at the ornaments in their hands with palpable bewilderment. 

“Huh, wonder why he wanted us to give each other our own gifts.” Lauretta comments.

“Yes… It’s most curious,” Marcus replies.

_ Oh my god, Aidan!! _

Frea must resist the  _ very  _ powerful urge to smack her forehead in exasperation. She doesn’t know what she expected from him when he mentioned he essentially wanted to do some matchmaking, but it wasn’t  _ this.  _ Of course, it’s partly her fault, if anything. Considering his… less than stellar life experiences, why would she have any expectation that he would be at all successful in this sort of thing?  _ She  _ would be just as terrible at this—!!

She cranes her neck to look behind Marcus, spotting Aidan pretending to be a bit too preoccupied with burying his face in Diana’s fur further down the garden. What the hell is meant to happen next after the gift exchange? It’s not as though either Lauretta or Marcus are in on this scheme!

Feeling as though everyone must be in some prank she isn’t privy to, she glances back at the two of them, and Lauretta makes a comment on the cookies. Though in true Northerner fashion, she’s quite crass about it.

“Feel like I could use these as weapons. They’re practically rocks.”

Marcus seizes up a bit and his gaze drops to the floor. It hurts to see, and the fact he’s the one who likely made these hits Frea like a goddamn train. In a split-second decision, she not so subtly jabs Lauretta’s side with her elbow, and when her friend makes an unappreciative yelp with a questioning glare, Frea quickly grabs one of the cookies.

“Oh these? They’re—” she takes a bite, and oh god it’s terrible. Just burnt beyond recognition, “It’s g-great!”

Obviously, her display isn’t very convincing, and Marcus forces a rueful grin.

“...I think I’ll be going now. You two enjoy yourselves.”

He looks so much like a beaten dog that Frea has every intention to give Lauretta another smack for that. Though, despite that, her friend finds another way to surprise her.

“Oi, Marcus.”

He stops, slowly turning— hesitant, yet strangely hopeful with how he looks at them.

“Would be good to put a pack of ice on your palms. Looks like it hurt.”

Marcus swallows, nodding once and uttering a soft word of thanks before leaving. The two women watch as he reaches Aidan, and the two of them disappear around the corner. Frea gives Lauretta a side-glance.

“He’s got red marks on his hands.” Lauretta says.

Frea glances down on the cookies. “Could he have… burnt himself trying to bake these?”

“Dunno. I’d need a proper look to actually assess the type of injury he has. Ice packs are good for general shit anyway.”

Certainly explains his red-rimmed eyes. She assumes he had burnt himself with the cookies, and apparently by Aidan’s behest he had it served to them anyway. Aidan’s technique might need a little tweaking… She’ll need to speak to him about it later, but in the meantime Lauretta grabs her attention again.

“Hey, dont’cha think…” She glances towards where Marcus and Aidan had left, “Dont’cha think your bro might be a bad influence on Aidan?”

Frea blinks. “Excuse me?”

Lauretta sits up with a huff, flipping through the newspaper pages and practically shoving the thing in her face.

_ ARCH PRIESTESS ALYSTIN CONDEMNS MASS RAPE IN UTREAU _

She coughs on the burnt cookie still in her mouth, forehead creasing when she reads the article. Apparently there’s been an issue of rampant sexual assaults against Utritian men and boys done by Asnainian soldiers and she grimaces at Lauretta. 

“Wha— What does this have to do with anything?”

“Marcus is always goin’ on about for a man to be good for a woman, y’know? Takin’ care of her or doin’ whatever she wants. Who’s to say he wouldn’t tell Aidan that puttin’ up with some woman’s advances would be a privilege?”

Frea’s voice is laden with disbelief. “Lauretta, don’t you think that’s a bit of an absurd conclusion to suddenly jump to?”

“There are some folks who think marital rape ain’t a thing,” her voice is uncharacteristically bitter, “If a man is married his wife can do whatever the fuck she wants. You really don’t think Marcus doesn’t think the same way? Again, he’s all about servicin’ women or whatever the fuck. I think he’s a bad influence for Aidan!”

She feels like this conversation is going way too quickly for her, and Frea pinches the bridge of her nose with a groan. Images of Aidan’s lips around her finger filter through her mind and her heart sinks to her stomach. He… would have just went ahead and let himself be used by her in a way Lauretta seems to be alluding to.

But that’s entirely because of his deplorable past, and her own actions. Marcus doesn’t have anything to do with that.

“You’re reading too much about my brother’s actions— he’s not trying to influence Aidan or anything of the sort. He’s just trying to impress you in the only way he knows how.”

Lauretta eyes widen, mouth opening before closing. It would be amusing if she weren’t in the midst of accusing Marcus of something so serious.

“For someone who claims to be observant, you’re awfully blind sometimes,” Frea says, “He’s a nobleman and you’re a woman who isn’t related to him. He doesn’t know any other way to act, and I… Truthfully, I don’t think he even truly subscribes to the beliefs he even speaks about anyway. He merely wants to get on your good side.”

She doubts he has any actual feelings for Lauretta that go beyond being vague acquaintances. He’s probably just as confused about his own actions as everyone else is. Yes, some of the things he says makes Frea raise a brow nowadays, but she already told herself she’d try to assist him with that. Just something on her every growing laundry list of things she has to do.

It’s just hard growing out of some things.

Lauretta, meanwhile, seems to be having her mind currently blown from this sudden realization and is currently unable to string a complete sentence together. Frea huffs, patting her on the shoulder. 

“Please be nicer to my brother. He’s trying.” She says, and only later will she begin to wonder if Lauretta interpreted that comment as Marcus having a crush on her.

...Suffice to say, Lauretta and Marcus remain fairly awkward and distant with one another.

* * *

Dr. Kippe said sleeping pills are not a cure for nightmares. She was right.

Frea wonders if she should begin keeping count. Some nights continue to make her convulse in silent screams, making her gasp and thrash. She would be forced to hold back tears as vestiges of the nightmare stay with her like hot tar on a road. Memories of the explosion, the sight of her legs, of Aidan’s tear stained face as she brought the belt onto his quivering back. 

And on other nights she is fortunate enough to only dream of the void, her taunting self absent, and she awakes in a pool of her sweat— her body quiet, and her mind able to make bearings. Regardless of the nature of her dreams, she would always be awake in unsightly hours of the night, laying there as she was unable to fall back asleep.

Tonight, she awakes with a croak, but luckily her mind is not in tatters. She blinks blearily for her eyes to get used to the darkness, and she sees someone she was both expecting and hoping to see.

“Hello Aidan.” The man in question kneels in beside her bed with a look of concern. Frea has since given up in telling him he doesn’t need to come to her room at the dead of night anymore. Besides, she was hoping to talk to him about… the events of the day.

_ <I messed up.> _ He signs morosely, and she can’t quite help but quirk a wry grin at that.

“At least your heart is in the right place,” Frea yawns, “Surely you know that having two people exchange gifts that  _ you  _ bought them is a little strange.”

_ <But I wanted them to talk to each other…> _ He then goes on to talk about Marcus and Nathaniel getting into a spat earlier, Nathaniel having locked himself in his room for the rest of the day and Frea comes to the horrible realization that her eldest brother was more than likely punished by mother, and that he didn’t actually burn himself with baking.

_ I really… want to yell at her…  _ She thinks bitterly, but returns to the subject at hand.

“I don’t think you really messed up per say… It’s just a bit of a hiccup,” the thought of touching his shoulder reassuringly briefly enters her mind, but she stops herself from doing that. “And, if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s good in a way that Marcus and Nathaniel had that argument. Yes, it could have gone better and could have been avoided entirely, but now once they’ve calmed down they can come to better understand one another…”

She scratches her head. “Well, I hope so, anyway. They’ve let each other know what their problem with the other is. Sort of.”

Aidan presses his lips together, and she takes the moment to truly appreciate how ludicrous this plan of his might be. It’s even a little bit endearing in its own way.

“What you’re trying is… commendable. Acadia knows I’d like my siblings and I to get along normally. And I feel for Nathaniel. Marcus, too. But… you can’t force a relationship on someone who doesn’t want it.”

The look he gives her makes her feel like she just kicked someone’s cat.

“I mean, I do think trying to get them together again is worth at least one more shot! Can’t just let people burn down bridges either,” she sputters, and for a moment she almost laughs at herself. Surely she’s the very last person to be giving advice on relationships, platonic or otherwise.

Still, it feels good to be able to speak with Aidan casually… It’s something she feels like she has to grab onto and never let go.

“I know you tried making lanterns, we could try that again. But this time with me, and Lauretta… Maybe Saskia can join in, too. If there’s more people, maybe Marcus and Nathaniel won’t feel as pressured to speak to one another, so it would be less awkward…” She shrugs, “And they don’t  _ have  _ to talk to each other. Just coexisting will be fine, I think. A shame we probably can’t get Esme to join.”

Aidan’s eyes widen, his fingers rubbing against one another as he considers her words. When he signs she has to resist the urge to ask him if he’s making fun of her.

_ <You’re really smart.> _

She averts her gaze with a cough. “...You give me too much credit. And with Marcus and Lauretta, clearly my brother has no talent with baking,” Granted, she’s unsure of how much of his performance was affected by his hands likely throbbing from his punishment. Aidan did mention that the entire thing was a bit of a miserable affair. “Maybe it would be good to suggest he crochet her something. Maybe a vest, or anything. Hair wreathing would probably take too long.

“And it would allow him to do something he’s quite adept at. Something he enjoys.” She smirks, “Maybe crochet her a lamb plush. Whatever works. But it might be good to wait a few days before trying anything again so that everyone can simmer down. Maybe a week.”

And then Lauretta would compliment him, since if there’s something she actually knows about men it’s that they like to feel validated, and maybe the two of them would find a common ground between them. Her mind goes back to the bucket list, and she focuses on the idea of visiting the aquarium again… She quickly banishes it from her thoughts. It’s only something she’d be able to do after the festival, anyway. 

Frea glances back at Aidan, his expression now resolute.

_ <I won’t give up. I’ll need to do something special for Esme so she doesn’t feel left out.> _

Yeah, he’s never really struck her as someone who gives up easily either.

He edges closer, signing becoming more excited.

_ <If we get everyone together to make lanterns, it would make a good photo.> _

She chuckles softly. 

“Yeah, it really would.”

* * *

A week passes, and then Frea is reminded once again how terrible she’s been at keeping track of time.

Dr. Kippe enters the room with apparent glee, and unlike her usual briefcase with medical supplies she lugs in a large suitcase. Some servants bring in two wooden bars, and she soon realizes they are parallel bars, something generally meant for gymnasts. Mother enters as well, taking a seat with a chair.

At Frea’s expression, Dr. Kippe tuts.

“Come now, Frea. Surely you know what day it is.”

_ Oh… it’s… _

There’s a spike in her heartbeat, and her hands become clammy— both from nervousness and overwhelming excitement.  _ Shit,  _ she feels like she might actually faint then and there. She really hasn’t been paying attention to these check-ups at all, huh? To think she’s been too focused on potentially making lanterns instead of this—!

Dr. Kippe grins widely, snapping open the suitcase.

“It’s time for you to try out some new legs!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone needs a reminder: As established in the previous chapter, Men's Voice is an underground newspaper that focuses on men's rights and liberation.


	21. Chapter 21

Frea hadn’t taken into account how difficult it would be to learn how to walk again.

Or how bloody heavy these prosthetics would feel. It’s awkward and lumbering and it feels like she’s being weighed down by damn cinder blocks. Beads of sweat form on her brow, and she holds onto the parallel bars with a white-knuckle grip. 

“You’re putting all your weight onto your arms. Try putting some weight on your feet. You need to be able to trust your prosthetics.” The prosthetist says, a plump and staid old woman with frizzy grey hair that Frea doesn’t know the name of. Most of the talk about her newly fitted feet has been between her and mother. 

...It’s starting to get a little grating over how she isn’t even made aware of some things regarding her own health.

Dr. Kippe makes various notes on the side, the sound of her pencil scrawling on multiple pages being the prevailing sound in the room. She crouches down and takes a peek at how stuff Frea’s movements are.

“Hmm. An idea for future patients— fit them with shorter prosthetic feet that would act as their training wheels, as it were. Something that can serve as an intermediate device that assists you in gradually building up strength and endurance while working on making basic movements before they try on their actual prosthetics.”

“Using my daughter as a guinea pig, are you?” Mother comments. By anyone else it would be a joking comment, but with her it makes Frea’s skin crawl.

“Recovery is a constantly evolving field, Damaris. I’m merely documenting potential ideas to make everything easier for Dr. Parry’s future patients.” She frowns slightly, taking a closer look at Frea’s legs. “Now I can’t help but worry that without an intermediary step like that may cause her physical setbacks.”

“...I’m fine,” Frea grits out, and it’s mostly true. Her legs are indeed fine, somewhat. It feels a bit tight on her stumps but ultimately most of the tension in her body is situated entirely on her upper half since she’s yet to actually put substantial weight on her new feet.

“Take all the time you need to take a step,” the prosthetist, Dr. Barry, murmurs. 

And she does, slowly.  _ Very _ slowly. Another challenge she hadn’t taken into account is that she can’t  _ feel _ the ground. It’s something that’s painfully obvious now, but beforehand such a thing never crossed her mind. Of course she can’t feel the ground, maybe if she were to jump the force would ricochet to her stumps and then she’d technically feel it, but with walking? Not a chance. The lack of touch makes her feel more unsteady.

The more she feebly moves her legs, another bigger problem becomes apparent.

She forgot how important moving one's ankles are.

The prosthetics are heavy, stiff things with no flexibility whatsoever. When someone walks, the foot…  _ moves,  _ dammit. It is not trapped in a single prone position like her current feet are. It makes Frea feel like she has to be more cognizant of her centre of mass and she already feels overwhelmed.

So it’s no surprise that her first step ends up with her tripping.

Luckily, Dr. Barry catches her since the woman has been standing directly in front of her the entire time to prevent falls just like this. Frea heaves a long, frustrated sigh between her teeth, and Dr. Kippe says something that only serves to make her feel more embittered.

“You’ll need to be switching your prosthetic out with new ones as your stumps gradually change shape, so we’ll need to measure you every few months. Obviously if it ends up hurting significantly, you’ll need to tell us ASAP. Once you’ve mastered the parallel bars, you’ll use crutches, and then canes. Both Dr. Barry and I estimate it’ll be about 40 days of physical therapy before you’ll be able to wear your legs for hours at a time on your own.”

Frea knows she’s just doing her job by giving her a run down of everything. But hearing that, then seeing the crutches and cane leaning on the wall when she steadies herself on the parallel bars… It’s already exhausting.  _ 40 days,  _ she thinks,  _ 40 fucking days. _ She’s been doing endless exercises over the past three months, but of course it isn’t enough. 

It’s ludicrous to think she would be a master of walking again after such a traumatic event. Frea knows that. She knows she’s just being a whiny brat when she keeps thinking  _ I’m so tired I don’t want to do this,  _ but the stress spreads through her mind like ink on paper in an instant. Her thoughts regurgitate the worries of the day, the worries of tomorrow, the worries that had consumed her for the past few months.

Clearly sensing her frustration, Dr. Kippe grins, through her eyes showing concern.

“Ah, Frea, would you like to be a little taller? We can give you a few extra inches on your prosthetics if you’d like…”

Frea takes in a deep, ragged breath, her hands tightening their grip on the parallel bars.

“I just want my independence back,” she mutters, unable to do much else but wallow in her own pity and self-doubt. 

“You won’t gain your independence if all you do is sulk.”

Mother’s voice slices through her like a knife, and Frea is just barely able to muster a half-hearted glare. Whatever the doctors are being paid, it’s clearly not enough to deal with this stifling, suffocating atmosphere. With a grunt, she attempts to take another step, only barely successful this time.

Both doctors give her a comment of encouragement that she barely registers, feeling too annoyed at her mother’s unhelpful snide remark. An all too familiar irritation swims throughout her veins, all directed towards the frosty Matriarch that has done absolutely nothing fucking beneficial the entire time Frea has been recovering. 

_ As soon as I can walk I’m telling her off,  _ her voice is hopelessly bitter in her head. Whether or not she’ll actually do what she wants she doesn’t know, since starting up a fight with mother feels like it would be about as successful as kicking a concrete wall, but as it stands…

Her main motivation now is just spite.

Then, for a moment, she feels her legs shake, and she quickly realizes that the floorboards are shaking from the flurry of footsteps that she soon hears. Someone’s doing a full sprint towards her room— that someone being Lauretta.

“Hellooooooooooo—!” 

The door bursts open when it’s unceremoniously kicked open, and Lauretta practically bounces into the room. Her abhorrent fashion sense is made more apparent with an ostentatiously red sleeveless jacket made of velveteen paired with a long-sleeved shirt that’s clearly one or two sizes too big for her. And it’s a bright baby blue. At least her pants are black. Black can at least go with any colour for the most part, even though her upper half reminds Frea of those poison dart frogs that have bright colouration to dissuade potential predators. 

“Hey—” Lauretta gasps dramatically, “Doc! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me she’d tryin’ on her new feet!”

Then comes in the reason why Lauretta decided to come in all excited— Aidan has a platter of food for lunch. The aroma of fresh baked garlic bread wafts through the air, swirling with the scent of finely brewed teas. Wisps of hazy steam rise from the main dish, and Frea recognizes almost instantly. Four cheese tuna casserole, something she often indulged in her youth as comfort food. 

She would eat it quite often whenever she was upset. These cheeses would have a bold flavour, the kind that demanded the tang of a pickle, the freshness of tomato or crisp salad leaf. It always wakes her brain up, and forces her to grin, as if it were wonderfully cheeky, a secret pleasure to savour.

Her stomach immediately clenches in hunger and growls noticeably.

For a moment, he looks as though Lauretta inelegantly faceplants on the floor, but in reality she just hastily got down on the ground to look at Frea’s prosthetics with a sparkle in her eyes. She makes a noise of delight, and Dr. Kippe clears her throat.

“As wonderful as your enthusiasm is, I worried it would prove a bit distracting to Frea.”

“Ah shucks, doc. Y’know I’m a cool and collected medical professional—” When mother so much as spares Lauretta a glance, the woman noticeably hunches her shoulders and twiddles her fingers. “I-I mean, I’m very sorry for the intrusion.”

Distracting as she may be, at least the tension of the room has practically evaporated. Sure, Frea feels a little guilty of Dr. Barry just standing in front of her waiting for her to begin walking again, but it’s so inconsequential that she doesn’t bother thinking about it further.

Frea steadies her, straightening her back and peeking a glance at Aidan who had busied himself with setting up her lunch. He’s wearing the usual servant’s uniform, though with the addition of a black tailcoat with golden buttons this time around. He’s not very subtle at his gawking when he looks down at her feet, his expression laced with both a hint of worry and awe. If he wasn’t afraid of mother, he’d probably be on the ground with Lauretta trying to get as close as a look as he possibly could. Not like she can really blame him.

Well,  _ now _ she feels like she has an audience. 

But at least she has the added motivation of having some food, she sardonically muses.

Vigour renewed, she takes a heavy, lumbering step. Then another, and another, and another. She feels as slow as a snail, but she supposes it’s a significant improvement. A start, even though the idea of needing 40 or so days to be able to actually walk fully without support still makes a niggling sense of shame to invade her. With each step, Lauretta gives her an exaggerated applause, soon joined by Aidan who is much more subdued with his clapping.

“Marcus, return to your room.”

Frea blinks, turning her gaze towards the doorway and she sees her brother peeking through, his hands poised like she was about to clap as well. Apparently mother’s voice is enough to remind him of his years of etiquette training, as he sets his hands down, bows his head demurely and attempts to speak as softly as he can without being outright unintelligible. 

“B-But Frey-Frey’s walking again—”

“And she will continue to do so in the days to come. As it stands, there are too many distractions, and lurking at the doorway is horribly rude. You would do well to further remind yourself of your etiquette lessons.” She doesn’t even look at him, and nods towards Aidan, “And why are you still here? No doubt there are dishes that need to be cleaned, and the garden needs weeding. Leave.”

Leave it to her mother to completely obliterate any semblance of a warm atmosphere. Marcus sulks and walks away, while Aidan almost sprints out the room while obediently keeping his head down. As soon as they leave, Frea manages one more step with a barely hidden scowl as she bites down an unhelpful snide comment.

Then her stomach growls again.

Dr. Kippe chuckles softly, “We can’t really do this on an empty stomach. We should take a break and continue this later. Wouldn’t want your food getting cold anyway.”

“We shall resume once you have finished eating.” Mother says.

“Well, maybe not  _ immediately  _ after, that may give her cramps—”

“Once she has finished eating.” Mother says again, her voice somehow sounding colder than usual, and she promptly leaves.

Both doctors assist Frea with taking her prosthetics off and getting her to sit at her desk, Lauretta hovering over them the entire time, and Dr. Kippe eventually sighs when she packs up her equipment. 

“I wonder what she’s mad about this time,” she murmurs, and Dr. Barry just shrugs. “You two have a good lunch. Don’t forget I want your report on my desk tomorrow morning, Lauretta.”

The two of them leave, Lauretta staying as Frea is only left alone whenever she sleeps nowadays anyway. She takes note of the size of the portions of the food, as well as the three cups and plates with multiple sets of cutlery. 

She frowns as Lauretta brings up another chair for herself. “I can quickly run after Aidan so we can have lunch together.”

“I’m not sure, mother seems to be in a foul mood. I wouldn’t want her seeing him here again and doing something. And I feel like he’d insist on doing his job anyway.” She smiles apologetically, “I’ll be sure to have leftovers packed and I will thank him personally. It smells and looks delicious.”

Lauretta frowns as she pours herself a cup of tea. “When is your ma not a complete—”

Frea covers her mouth before she can finish her sentence, her brows twitching. “Why do I feel like you were going to call my mother something unsavoury?” She forces out with a hiss, “How about we focus on our lunch. Oh— Dr. Kippe mentioned you are writing a report, what's that about?”

Hissing, Lauretta sets her cup down and dries her hand from the spilled tea. She pouts.

“Golly, everyone here is so dramatic. And yeah, I’ve been writin’ reports about everythin’. Speakin’ of, I might as well ask you some questions. How're your legs right now? How does the prosthetics feel? I should probably take a look at your stumps to make sure everythin’ is hunky-dory before you go tryin’ anythin’ else on.”

“Wow, talking like that you actually sound like you could be a medical professional instead of someone who just visits often.”

Frea smiles behind the rim of her cup as Lauretta guffaws. 

“I’m a professional! Well, professional-in-trainin’. I swear the doc is actually teachin’ me shit when I’m not here! I got homework!” Lauretta replies with mock offense, “Why you gotta go for the jugular like that?”

After serving the casserole— it’s as delicious as it looks, the golden brown cheese fitting perfectly with the juicy tomato and perfectly cooked tuna— Frea answers her friend’s questions who promptly jots it down. There’s a slight discomfort and that’s about it. After some time, Lauretta scratches her cheek with a sheepish expression.

“Um, hey, can I see your feet?”

Both of them blink, and Lauretta’s face blanches.

“N-Not like that! God, no! I just wanna see the fancy prosthetic stuff.”

Frea snorts, “Interesting how your mind immediately went there. Should I worry about your future patients with foot trauma? But yes, go ahead. I think they left it in the suitcase there.” 

“I can’t believe little ol’ me, innocent professional-in-trainin’, is bein’ mercilessly bullied by my own patient.” 

The lunch continues on like that, exchanging playful jabs and banter.

It makes the food taste even better.

* * *

The sky is mostly grey, which is exactly how Aidan is feeling right about now as he pulls out weeds growing at the base of the aviary. At least the birds seem to appreciate his work as they chirp happily, though that doesn’t stop his lips from pressing together on a thin line. 

He wanted to see Master walk more. It’s not fair he was sent away.

...But he’s also too scared to disobey an order, especially when it comes from Master’s mother… He’s seldom interacted with the woman, almost entirely because he avoids her as best he can, but when he so much as sees her he feels like his limbs might freeze up in fear. It’s an anxiety and dread he can’t escape, having followed him all the way from Utreau.

She’s the only thing that keeps him afraid of something bad happening.

Inevitably, his thoughts return to Master walking. He really wanted to get closer. He really,  _ really  _ did. The sight gave him a spark of adrenaline to buzz beneath his skin and he could barely contain himself, but the spark was promptly extinguished when he was told to leave.

Still, the memory is seared into his mind, and he uses it as motivation.  _ Maybe if I’m very good at weeding I’ll be allowed to see her again,  _ and other similarly silly thoughts filter through his head. Though for a brief moment he wonders when the voice in his head became father’s… it was always the cruel jabs from the women who had beaten him in the past that narrated his thoughts. 

He... doesn’t really hear them anymore.

It makes him pull out the weeds faster, with absolutely more enthusiasm than what’s necessary.

“The gardeners don’t usually wear tailcoats.” An amused voice makes Aidan look up, and he sees Marcus crouch next to him. He notices that Master’s brother has recently shaved his face. 

Marcus pokes at the weeds, soon pulling one out, and Aidan’s busy signing  _ <You don’t have to, that’s my job> _ but Marcus isn’t looking at him.

“I admit, I’m a bit miffed that I couldn’t watch Frey-Frey walk.” His lips twitch downwards, “I wonder if that’s another sign of me needing more etiquette lessons. Hopefully when I do morning prayer with her again I’ll be granted permission to watch her progress.”

Aidan isn’t sure what to make of the etiquette comment— truthfully, it’s not a concept he understands very well and he has decided to never ask— but he’ll easily agree with not being able to see Frey—  _ err— _ Master walk. 

He could see the frustration yet determination etched on her features. A single step had her working  _ so  _ hard, to the point he became thankful that his  _ own  _ legs remain intact. She fought for every step; both physically and in the grand scheme of things to become a better person, even if it wasn’t always in the right direction. His back knows what happens when she goes the wrong way.

But the hurt he had felt is so… foreign now. Master is doing so well she’s  _ soaring…  _ And… And Aidan’s afraid. He’s afraid she’ll crash. That he’ll have to watch it happen. His heart aches to think there’s no way for him to help if she does. The thought of her returning to where she was makes his hands tremble, a suffocating feeling that threatens to overwhelm him like massive waves in the ocean. It’s enough to give him nightmares.

“Aidan, are you alright?” Warmth suddenly feels him when Marcus gently holds one of his hands. 

He blinks, the older man returning to his vision, and he immediately feels himself grow calmer when he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. In regards to his question, he nods, offercing Marcus a small smile.

The more he looks at Master’s brother as he hears the birds in the aviary sing their songs, the more he is reminded of the conversation he and Lauretta had. Something to do with Lauretta’s father kneeling in front of her mother as she sat on her chair and massaged her feet. He’d have to dutifully take off her shoes.

Aidan ponders it. 

He… may not be able to take off any shoes… but it would be nice that after a long day he’d be the one to kneel in front of her and take off Ffffff _ ffffffr —  _ Master’s fake feet and then… massage her stumps? Should he even massage her stumps? They always look so sensitive. But if he can assist with making things just a little more convenient for her and help her stay where she is as she continues to soar… He can live without doing any massaging.

...But he can settle with massaging her shoulders. He’d like to think he’s pretty good at that even though it’s been forever since he’s done anything like that.

_ And it would be super duper nice if it led to her putting her fingers through my hair like that one time— _

A bemused sound takes him out of it. Marcus covers his grin with his hand.

“Thinking really hard about something?”

Another nod, this time punctuated with him focusing intensely on the weeds to save face despite the spot he had been working on now being spotless.

“Ah,” he hears Marcus make a small noise of surprise, “Goodness gracious, I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for that lovely cardinal ornament. Thank you. I’ve set it on my windowsill, and I think it really brings in a certain charm to my room. Though your method of gifting remains a bit of a perplexity.”

Aidan’s brow twitches, and he wills himself to not become overtly flustered.  _ <It reminded me of you because you like birds. I’m glad you like it.> _ He’ll just ignore the last bit of Marcus’ comment… Though now he wonders if he should just come clean about his intentions… It’s not as though he’s been very subtle in the first place.

“I know this isn’t the point of gifts, but I do feel the need to give you something in return. I can crochet, and I’m quite good at it! Or would you prefer a hair wreath? Though those take a fair bit of time, and I’ve been told some people do not take kindly at being given framed hair…” He waves his hand, “Anyhow, I would like to return the favour. Ah, take it as a birthday present… Actually, when is your birthday?”

Now there’s a question he wasn’t expecting to be asked. Aidan shrugs, and Marcus frowns slightly.

“Well, I suppose that’s all the more reason to make you something. That’s an important date that should be celebrated regardless if you know it or not.”

At that, an idea snakes its way into Aidan’s head.

_ <You should make Lauretta and Nathaniel something instead. That can be my gift.> _ Aidan smiles at himself in pride. What a brilliant idea! Absolutely foolproof!  _ Smart!! _

“O-Oh…” Marcus’ voice tapers off to something soft as he appears to seriously consider Aidan’s suggestion. “Well, I’m not sure Lady Elader is very fond of my presence, but I do suppose an apology to Nathaniel is in order… How is he? I was awfully rude and querulous...” His hands clench and unclench, his fingers soon grazing his palm. The red marks on his hands have since gone away, but the thought of them makes Aidan uneasy.

He doesn’t understand why Marcus was punished. Along with fear there is… a brief spurt of animosity he begins to feel towards his and Master’s mother. 

_ <Nathaniel is fine. I haven’t seen him much this week. I want to speak to him again soon since staying in his room can’t be very healthy.> _ Aidan signs resolutely. That is something he knows, though his next comment is more of an assumption he signs for Marcus’ sake.  _ <Lauretta isn’t annoyed at you. She’s just confused.> _

“Confused?”

_ <Yes. She’s tired and stressed.> _

“...Is she confused or tired and stressed?”

_ <All three at the same time! She does a lot of work for Master!> _

Marcus’ mouth hangs open loosely for a moment.

“Oh but of course! She’s a busy woman, it only makes sense that she’d be irked sometimes when I intrude on her valuable time,” ...Well, Aidan hadn’t wanted another bout of self-flagellation but Marcus really does look like he’s in a middle of a grand epiphany, so he doesn’t sign any objections. “...Perhaps I should crochet her something that she can take her frustrations out on... I’ve heard of stress balls before, maybe I can invent the stress crochet, hehe. It’ll—It’ll be my way of thanks for her suggestion for me to use an ice pack on my palms.”

Sometimes, Aidan thinks about how Marcus’ mind is truly being a bit of an enigma. But he seems content, and there’s progress. The gift exchange wasn’t a complete failure!  _ Smart, smart, smart! _

“And then… As for Nathaniel… I’ve been trying to make my voice softer. Acadia knows that he’s made it clear before that I sometimes get too loud for his liking. I’m unsure what to make for him…” He bashfully tugs on a strand of his hair, “It would probably be for the best if I simply speak with him first.”

_ Best gift ever.  _ Aidan nods vigorously, signing just as energetically.

_ <Yes. It would be great if we try making lanterns again. I want to invite Master and Lauretta this time.> _

“Ah, yes, the festival. That’s about two weeks away, I believe? Frey-Frey will likely still need her wheelchair… I can’t see her walking on her own so soon. That’s unfortunate.”

_ Two weeks!? _

Aidan edges closer to him,  _ <We must make the lanterns soon!!> _

Stifling a laugh, Marcus nods. “I shall arrange a day for it then. We’ll need a different room if Lady Elader and Frey-Frey will join. Anyhow,” He stands, patting down his legs and looking around the garden. “You’ve done quite the exemplary job at weeding. And I see you’ve trimmed some bushes. How about you take a tea break with me, hmm?”

He smiles, and Aidan feels a pang of familial warmth hit his chest, a feeling that was always eclipsed by loss and strife in the past. It’s no longer drowned out by sorrow, and his body feels all the more lighter because of it. Everything just… keeps getting better and better.

So of course, he happily accepts Marcus’ invitation. Admittedly he feels the… slightest, tiniest bit of chagrin over not being able to see Master for the rest of the day, but being with her brother is almost just as satisfying.

* * *

Frea isn’t able to do much else for the rest of the day. Mother works her like a dog on her physical therapy. The sun has since set and the curtains drawn. Dr. Barry has left, too, while Dr. Kippe prepares to leave with some finishing remarks towards mother. Frea lays on the bed, her stumps feeling uncomfortably sticky with sweat alongside a dull ache. 

“Try not to overwork yourself. No one expects you to walk again overnight. I don’t want you having any physical setbacks,” Dr. Kippe says, though the comment is clearly directed towards mother. 

Mother doesn’t make a response to the comment, rather she speaks to Frea. “We shall make a more defined schedule tomorrow. I want you walking on your own as soon as possible.” Her voice is curt and impassive, and Frea almost feels as though she’s being scolded. Mother, thankfully, leaves the room shortly after. 

Both Dr. Kippe and Lauretta sigh. Probably in relief. But Frea would  _ never _ think that out loud lest she wants her mother to get pissy and feel like she’s getting attacked and kick them both out the house.

“Well,” Dr. Kippe starts, “I should let you know that we’ll be trying out different types of prosthetics over the next few days, just to get a feel for what’s best for you. You seemed to dislike the ones you wore today.”

Lauretta tuts. “Ya gotta tell us if you’re uncomfortable.”

“...It just felt a bit tight, which I assume it needs to be to stay on me. And it was heavy.” Frea replies.

“We can absolutely get you something lighter then. I don’t want you uncomfortable the entire time. The ideal is for when you’re at the point, walking should be effortless.” Dr. Kippe hands Frea a small instructional booklet, one that shows her several different illustrations of different types of prosthetics. 

She lifts a brow. “Had no idea there were so many types.”

“Well, it’s been a bit of boomin’ business recently.” Lauretta says, her smile becoming sheepish when Dr. Kippe gives her a  _ look. _

Frea flips through the booklet, skipping through the prosthetics that are irrelevant to her since they focus on hands and arms, and when she gets to the legs she spots something interesting.

_ “‘C’ shaped blades are more ideal for a jogging pace or long distance running. This shape is more effective at storing and releasing energy over time which helps you to run more efficiently and for longer periods of time.” _

The prosthetics in question do not look like feet in the slightest. It is indeed a… C shaped blade. It looks fairly bouncy, likely made of some sort of flexible material. She already wants to wear it on the merit that it’s no doubt lighter than what she wore today.

“Thinkin’ of goin’ joggin’?” Lauretta says over her shoulder, now sitting beside her. Frea doesn’t answer, too focused on the illustration. 

It’s so utterly inhuman looking. Absolutely attention grabbing and it would no doubt get people around here talking. With the other prosthetics, one can hide it with pants and shoes and could probably fool someone into thinking you’re not a cripple if it weren’t for the awkward gait. But with  _ this,  _ there’s no fooling anyone.

She thinks back to mother and her cold, judicial eyes, her insipid need to keep up appearances and yet her easy and bizarre permission to allow Frea to attend the festival…  _ She probably wants me to walk as soon as possible so it’s easier for me to give her an heir and hide my distinct lack of feet,  _ she thinks, biting her cheek in growing ire,  _ And allowing me to go to the festival to get my good side. What a joke. _

She feels that spite again.  _ Irritation. _

Frea then touches her face, fingers grazing her birthmarks that have since no longer been a concern for her. How long had she spent fretting over how people saw her because she believed she needed to be perfect to be a Valentine? She refuses to be such a neurotic over her own legs. It’s not her fault and she can’t be bothered to be so apologetic about her appearance anymore.

Let people see and talk about her appearance. She doesn’t care anymore.

But she  _ does  _ care about how mother feels about it.

Because frankly, she wants to piss her off. She wants it to be like she’s holding a sign proclaiming  _ “Hey! I’m a Valentine and I look funny! Make all the unsavoury rumours you want because chances are they’re true!!” _

“I want to wear this one,” Frea says, pointing at the illustration. Dr. Kippe closes her suitcase with a click, looking over the page while readjusting her glasses.

“Of course. You’ll need something for exercise.”

_ “No,”  _ Frea’s lips twist in a wry smirk, “I want to wear this one and  _ only  _ this one.”

She knows Dr. Kippe will probably be obligated to give her several different types of prosthetics, but at every chance she’ll get, Frea will be wearing these ones. She’d like to see mother try to force to put on a different, more ‘normal’ looking one. It’s ridiculously petty, but it’s the only way she can feel like she can rebel and reclaim…  _ ah, _ further reclaim whatever semblance of control she has left. It almost makes her feel giddy.

Dr. Kippe leaves while obviously not taking her comment very seriously, and Lauretta remains a little longer to chat and drink hot chocolate before she departs. It’s a simple, enjoyable evening, and the two of things speak of mundane things. The entire time, there’s one prevailing thought in the back of Frea’s head.

_ Fuck my family reputation. _

* * *

“Aaron, Abbey, Abbot, Abel, Abney…” Esme reads off a list she had brought with her, relaxing back into her seat.

“S’is like I’m gettin’ deja vu when our lil’ Frey-Frey was tryin’ to find out Aidan’s name.”

Frea’s room has become an impromptu naming session, and frankly she’s a bit surprised mother even allowed Esme to be here in the first place, much less grant her permission to actually have a break from physical therapy outside of lunch. The amicable discussion between the three women that occupy the room is a slowly growing cloud of names, sometimes punctuated with Aidan and Esme moving a chess piece across the board.

Though it’s not as though Frea is completely free from her physical therapy for the time being. She’s been told— well, ordered— to practice putting on and off her prosthetics. The thing has a lot more steps to put on than she anticipated, and she slowly commits the process to memory. 

She doesn’t miss how Aidan seems to be intently watching her practice. Esme doesn’t miss it, either.

“Hey kid, pay attention. We have to give you a last name.”

Lauretta, who had taken a liking to looking at everything through Frea’s camera viewfinder, nearly falls out of her chair when she leans too far back to look at the ceiling. “Some of these sound more like first names though.”

“Surely my ceiling isn’t that interesting,” Frea interjects dryly.

Undeterred, her friend leans forward, her lips curled in a wide grin. “Oh, I got one. Chrysalis. Y’know, when a larva becomes a butterfly or moth. So, like, Aidan went from a slave to a person! It’s all symbolic ‘n shit. Smart, eeeeeh?”

Esme looks at Aidan with a raised brow, and he doesn’t have much of a response other than doing his next move in chess with a slight shake of his head.

“I think the jury’s out on that one.”

Frea, being no help, just sits with the barest hints of amusement radiating off her as Lauretta laments loudly and dramatically. Esme, meanwhile, returns to listing off the names in hopes he takes a liking to one. When asked about what would happen next if he does receive a last name, the older woman just vaguely replied with,  _ “Paperwork, I guess. I’ll figure it out.” _

“Gallio,” Esme pauses, lip curling in a small grin, “Old Asnainian word meaning a man who likes milk.” She leans forward, moving her chess piece forward and getting Aidan’s attention with a hand gesture. “Kid, listen. When you hear these names there’s gotta be… something that rings out when you like them. A feeling of something satisfactory, something put into place, something that fits  _ perfectly.  _ That’s how you know you got the right name.”

Frea finished putting on her prosthetics for the umpteenth time, giving the chess playing duo a side glance, “And you thought something would fit into place when he heard a word that means to like  _ milk?” _

“You never know. Maybe he really likes the stuff.”

“At the rate you’re going you may as well just use Kidd.”

A series of snickers erupts from Lauretta, and Frea decides to take a short break from putting on and off her new feet constantly. For a split-second, something pensive overtakes her former commander’s previous joviality, but she’s left feeling unsure of what she saw when Esme continues with the names with an expression of her typical sobriety.

Frea threads her hand through her hair, which has since grown past her shoulders. Esme and Lauretta evidently keep their grooming in check seeing how their hair remains short, and the same goes for Aidan; though servants have strict regiments when it comes to appearance anyway. Especially when they’re men.

Vague memories sift through her head, coming together like an abruptly ringing a bell in her face. A stubborn curiosity makes her ask her next question.

“Hey, Lauretta,” she says absentmindedly, “How long has it been since I met you in Utreau?”

The medic turns her head towards Frea, not putting the camera down and looking at her through the viewfinder while fiddling with the knob for focusing, “Eeeh, maybe… five months? Or six?”

“Feels like it’s been a lot shorter,” Frea smiles sardonically, her thoughts drifting to how she spent a good chunk of that time feeling like she was going insane. Much of the early days of when she lost her feet is such a blur now. A  _ click  _ tells her Lauretta took her photo, and then there’s another series of  _ clicks  _ as she attaches the straps of her prosthetics together again.

Frea glances at Aidan, almost out of habit at this point, to see if he’s still looking at her studiously. Interestingly, he’s looking at her direction, but definitely not  _ at  _ her. Brows pinched together, and jaw slightly tense— he’s clearly thinking about something important.

He taps on the table to get Lauretta’s attention.

_ <When is your birthday?> _

...Sure, that’s something plenty important.

Lauretta, still looking through the camera and having zoomed in at Aidan’s hands, answers with a sheepish smile.

“Ah, it was just after… y’know… When we were on the train to get Frea home.”

Frea pauses her movements, aghast, and her features promptly turns ashen, “...I’m sorry you had to spend your birthday like that.”

Lauretta finally sets the camera down when she replies.

“Hey, hey, hey, we kinda had more important stuff to do! Nothin’ to worry about. ‘Sides, it’s not like it’s somethin’ I celebrated much in the first place anyway.”

Aidan leans forward, tapping the table quicker and louder to make Lauretta turn her head towards him again. < _ I must get you something.> _

She guffaws, “Naaaw, you already got me somethin’! That lil’ drunken sailor statue thingy! I like it plenty, so thanks.”

He doesn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but he signs nonetheless.  _ <Alright. When is your birthday so I can remember.> _

“The twenty-fifth of Julos,” Lauretta applies gleefully, “Coincidentally, I turned twenty-five, too.”

“...What the hell? How are you five years older than me?” Frea blurts out, and Esme stifles a chuckle with a snort.

Aidan then sharply turns to Esme, expression rigid in determination despite how admittedly silly his quest for information currently is. Esme understands his question without him signing it.

“Small world, huh. Lauretta and I share the same birth month, except mine is on the seventh.”

“...What the hell,” Frea repeats, more slowly this time in disbelief and with a twinge of biting guilt as she massages her temples, “I’m sorry—”

“None of that. It’s just a birthday,” Esme waves her hand, her frown twitching into a tiny smile, “I’m still in my double digits so I got plenty of them left.”

The joke makes her shoulders feel just a little bit lighter, and she inhales deeply to remind herself to move on that event and the pain that came from it. She nods, uttering a soft, “Alright. Yes, you’re right.” A tentative glance at Aidan makes it clear to her that he’s curious about her own birth date, though his eyes are decidedly a lot more timid now.

“Mine is one the thirty-first of Seqent. So before I left for Utreau. I’ll be taking your earlier gift as an impromptu birthday gift, so don’t worry about getting me anything.”

Aidan’s shoulders sag, expression looking forlorn. Really, it’s a bit of a dramatic reaction and it makes Frea grin.

“Marcus’ was on the thirteenth of Dorucius, so when we were still in Utreau. Don’t worry! Nathaniel’s still has to happen. His is on the seventh of Byna, right in the middle of the summer holidays.” Something tells her Aidan might become quite the party planner in the future.

He nods resolutely, content with committing the knowledge to memory. She half expects Esme and Lauretta to turn the question around on him, but in turn they likely know what his answer, or lack of answer, would be. It must be Esme is thinking of, as her expression sours for a split-second before she changes the topic.

“Anyway, what have you been up to when I’m not here? Other than walking again,” she juts her chin towards the parallel bars, “Still gotta see you give those things a try. Lauretta said you’ve gotten really good at it already and it’s only been three days.”

Lauretta takes the opportunity to return to looking at every nook and cranny of her room with the camera, and Aidan promptly swivels his head around to answer Esme.

_ <I saw her walk! She did very well!! And we’re going to make lanterns soon for the festival. I wish you could join.> _

“You and me both, kid. But you have fun with it, yeah? Can’t wait to see you experience your first Martyrs’ Festival. It’ll be a special moment, I reckon. Now,” she sets up a new game of chess, and picks up her book of names. “I ain’t letting you go until you give me a list of surnames that stick out to you.”

Aidan lets his discontent be known with a pout.

_ <I’d rather you read me a story book instead of a name book…> _

Esme throws her head back in laughter. “Hah! I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll try to get a good story to make up for not being able to make lanterns with you. But first, names.”

It continues on like that for however long, but it is an easy-going atmosphere apparently not destined to last  _ too  _ long, because mother comes in, followed by a reluctant looking Dr. Kippe. Esme and Aidan are promptly told to leave, and Lauretta gives the two of them a withering look as she’s caught between staying or leaving. She stays, but not before giving Aidan a goodbye hug.   
  


_ Time to walk again,  _ Frea thinks while sighing. 

She does not hide her open disdain for her mother with her scowl that eventually turns into a shit-eating smirk when she makes it clear she intends to only wear the sports prosthetics.

* * *

...He still hasn’t been given another chance to watch her walk. It’s a lot more aggravating than Aidan anticipating.  _ But,  _ that’ll be an issue to resolve another day, because now it’s the evening and he has to go to Nathaniel’s room to see how he’s doing. He hopes he can try to convince to at least come out again—

“I apologize for my behaviour. Yelling at you was inexcusable.”

Aidan stops, hand hovering just above the doorknob. Marcus’ voice is silent, whisper-like, and Nathaniel’s reply is equally as muted.

“...Yeah, whatever.”

He can feel the awkward atmosphere from here, but Aidan isn’t sure if his arrival would be a boon or a detriment. So he remains there, feeling a slight spike of guilt from eavesdropping.

To his surprise, Nathaniel is the one to speak again.

“Am I nosy?”

Damn, straight to the point and putting Marcus on the spot. That’s a bit ruthless.

“Ah… I just think you have trouble reading the room sometimes.” 

_ Agh! Come on Marcus! I told you to be frank and to the point! _

“I read in the book that reading the room means to use one's intuition to analyze the general mood of the people in a particular setting and act accordingly.” A pause, “I don’t know if I have a lot of intuition.”

Well, now Aidan feels a bit bad for assuming Nathaniel wouldn’t understand an idiom.

He hears a shift, likely Marcus sitting on the floor. “Well, I suppose that means you need more practice. It’s difficult to develop one’s own intuition when you’re holed up in your room all day. That being said, I’d like to invite you to try to make some lanterns with me and Aidan again. Frey-Frey and Lady Elader will be joining us.”

The next pause is likely Nathaniel’s own hesitance, and Marcus continues to coax him. “You have my word no one will be yelling at you or giving you a difficult time. It’s… disheartening to see you in your room all the time. I want— I want to see you thrive outside of it, Nathaniel. I want to help you be more at ease with social situations.”

The quiet now… is not so terribly awkward. The tension seems to lessen, and Aidan brings his hand away from the doorknob. Nathaniel’s voice is akin to a mumble… It’s shy.

“...M’Sorry for asking you about your stuff when you didn’t want to talk about it. Are your hands okay?”

“Oh, yes. They haven’t hurt for days now. Now, you’ll have to forgive me if  _ I’m  _ being too nosy but I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been very keen on reading that book over there.”

“That’s a book Aidan gave me. It’s all about Dasir. It’s really cool.”

“Mhm, is that so?”

“Y-Yeah,” Nathaniel’s voice loses its shyness, a twinge of excitement slithering in, like someone who’s been granted the opportunity to speak about a topic they’re fond of for the first time. “I read in that book that during the summer months…”

Aidan takes a light step back, then another, and another. Soon, he’s tip-toeing down the stairs with a slight skip in his step. There’s no hiding the wide smile that reaches his ears.

_ Yeah, they’ll be fine. _

He’ll pat himself on the back for that one. His initial failure of having them connected turned into a grand success and he just wants to jump with his fists in the air while exclaiming  _ woo-hoo!  _ Well, while he might not be able to do any exclaiming, he can certainly give himself the most silent applause possible with his hands as he makes his way over to Master’s room.

He goes there mostly under the pretense of getting a closer look at her new legs— he still very much wants to be the one to take it off after a long day of work!!— but in reality, he ends up primarily checking that she is sleeping peacefully and is not besieged by another nightmare.

* * *

Frea’s muscles ache. She really should get some pain relief for this. Out of everything, she wasn’t quite expecting mother to be so hellishly intent on forcing her to practice walking at every chance she gets. She sardonically wonders if this is what it feels like to have your limbs set on fire.

Thankfully, Dr. Kippe had put her foot down and basically chastised mother that going too ham on physical therapy would do more harm than good. Really, Frea should get the doctor a thank-you card at the very least. Maybe with some type of bonus when she calculates Aidan’s next paycheque.

At least what she’s currently feeling doesn’t hold a candle to when she fell on her stumps that one evening. Really, that felt almost worse than the actual goddamn grenade that took her feet off in the first place.

_ Thankfully,  _ a servant pushes her wheelchair so she doesn’t have to use her arms. Their little lantern making get together will be held in one of the living rooms—  _ “What do you mean you have more than one living room? What the fuck?”  _ Lauretta had asked with such dismay in her voice that Frea felt compelled to apologize — and when she finds herself comfortably seated in front of the fireplace she thanks the servant and waits for everyone else to arrive.

Though she doesn’t need to wait for Nathaniel, since he’s already here.

Her brother doesn’t seem entirely aware of her presence since he’s furiously scrawling away in his sketchbook. The rest of the empty seats circle a large oak table that has various crafts meticulously set up. Traditionally, there are two ways to make lanterns for Martyrs’ Festival— one with a glass jar and one with paper. The glass jar method is exceedingly simple since one only needs to paint very light, watery red on it and then stick a small candle in it. The paper lantern requires more dexterity and creativity. 

Doesn’t really matter which lantern a person makes. As long as they make  _ something,  _ what with Martyrs’ Festival technically being a big metaphorical funeral for anyone who’s ever died in the name of Asnain. It would be considered distasteful not to make one.

The light of the fireplace and the candelabras makes everything all the more… cosy. It has been a bit dreary outside as of late, which is generally seen as a good sign because superstition says bad weather before the Martyrs’ Festival means the actual festival will be blessed with sunny days. 

Above the fireplace mantle is a framed painting of an opposing looking wolf, the hunter goddess Damaris. Also on the walls is the occasional mounted animal head and the framed hair-wreath made of hair from past Valentine generations. The floor has a large, silvery grey, silky carpet, and the furniture is covered with dark green, equally silky material.

When she’s done appreciating a room she hasn’t been in a while, her gaze lands on Nathaniel once more. For a brief second he looks up at her, before looking back at the page of his sketchbook. He blinks in quick succession, apparently realizing that she is indeed sitting across the table from him.

He looks back up at her. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” is Frea’s own muted response. Restlessness hits her like a goddamn horse, and she taps on the armrest of her chair… But only once, since it’s a discomfort to even move that much. Exhaling heavily, she decides that at the very least she doesn’t want this chance to slip through her fingers and she may as well do something that’s long overdue.

“Nathaniel, I must apologize for my behaviour some time ago. Um, when I implied that you were a deadbeat. You’re anything but that.”

He tilts his head. “Is everyone going to say sorry to me?” She doesn’t know what to think about that, but her dumbfoundedness is apparently amusing enough for his lips twitch upwards. “You sure took your time to say that.”

Frea sheepishly tugs at the collar of her jacket. “I— yeah, I don’t have an excuse for that. Sorry.”

“It’s whatever. I don’t really care about what you said back then,” he shrugs, returning to moving his pencil across his page, “You’re lucky that you’re not so bad anymore, otherwise I would have only had come here for Aidan and Marcus.”

It takes her a minute, but when the light bulb goes over her head she has to suppress the sudden strong urge to let out a long series of  _ aw’s.  _ She tries to stop herself smiling  _ too  _ much, but she wounds up looking goofy all the same.

“Nathaniel…” she says gleefully, “You came here for me?”

A twinge of pink hits her brother’s cheeks. “D-Don’t make me take back what I said.”

It doesn’t take long for everyone else to come in. Marcus rolls in a tea cart with the usual refreshments, while Aidan holds a platter of some fresh smelling pastries that immediately make Frea’s mouth salivate. 

“So you two were here. Such early birds,” Marcus titters on happily, setting up a cup of tea for everyone, “Don’t worry, I had no hand at baking this time. I was just in charge of the tea. It’s a new brew I’ve recently perfected. The sweet flavour of apricots blended with Ceylon and Keemun black teas makes for a sweet, mellow cup.”

“I came early so I could get used to the room,” Nathaniel replies without looking up from his sketchbook.

As described, the tea is sweet and a comfortable warmth settles in Frea’s stomach. “This is great. Thank you.”

The food is promptly set up on the finest plates the estate has to offer. Dainty biscuits and soft bread, from white chocolate and macadamia nuts right through to sprouted grains and wheat germ, there really is something for everyone. Lauretta comes in while greedily eying the food, her tongue licking her lips. The aroma must coax Diana to join too, and the dog takes her spot near the fireplace.

“You nobles and your tea parties,” Lauretta scoffs with a grin, biting into a cookie and immediately humming jovially. “Not that I’m complaining. Have all the dang tea parties you want.”

“I’m very pleased that the food is to your liking, Lady Elader. Now, Aidan and I wrote some instructions on how to create lanterns here.”

It’s not very difficult, seeing how lanterns are meant to be simple enough even a child could make them. But lantern making isn’t really the goal of this gathering, anyway. It’s simply to enjoy one another’s company, and while everyone is pretty easy going right now Aidan is practically vibrating with excitement.

Lauretta takes her seat next to Frea, and she waggles her brows at her when she reads the instructions.

“Hey, we should have a competition on who can make the most lanterns.”

“My arms feel like going to fall off. I think I’ll just make a simple jar one.” Frea replies.

Aidan, sitting on her opposite side, leans in.  _ <Who will you make the lantern for?> _

Frea raises a questioning brow, coaxing him to continue signing.

_ <I’m making one for my father.> _

Ah. Well, that certainly is one way to sober the mood. She tugs at a strand of hair, lips pursed together. It’s not like she knows anyone who’s died recently, so she shrugs and settles with a generic answer.

“I’ll make one for the soldiers who died in the war.”

The vicissitude of the city when any sort of festival comes around is always one of delight and excitement. It really doesn’t feel like a country wide funeral, but maybe that’s the point. Though something tells her it might be a tad bit somber this year.

They get into the crafts, Nathaniel becoming especially focused. There’s banter here and there, about the weather, about Frea’s process with walking, about the food, about Diana begging for said food, about the bucket-list, about playing board games later. It’s all very… comfortable. Simple and easy. Somehow, the mere idea of a get together seemed like it would have been exceptionally difficult for her. Maybe such a thought is due to the type of person she once was.  _ Acadia,  _ if she were still like the way she was this absolutely would have been an abhorrently miserable affair.

But it’s not. So Frea engages in the activities without anything weighing on her conscious, the dull ache in her muscles being a minor inconvenience she barely notices now.

She’s also just thankful that Lauretta no longer seems to think Marcus has any ill-intent for Aidan, unintentional or otherwise. They’re amicable enough with each other. As long as her brother doesn’t go into his self-deprecating spiels with his weirdly clunky view of manhood, it should be fine.

...Though there’s another type of stiffness in her actions. One that Frea determines as harmless, but stiff nonetheless.

Lauretta pokes at the doily, made of bright red yarn and in the style of an intricate snowflake. 

“This is probably the fanciest doily I’ve ever seen,” she murmurs, and Marcus pounces on that immediately.

“Oh! I made that. Along with all the other doilies, and the table mat, too.”

“D-Dang, you crochet, embroider and make hair wreaths? You’re mighty good with your hands.”

Marcus  _ beams  _ at that. Ah, the joys of feeling validated for what you do. They continue discussing crochet, with Marcus explaining the process of making a doily while sometimes turning back to Nathaniel to check his process and endlessly compliment him— Nathaniel silently appreciates his cheerleader with a tiny,  _ tiny  _ smile— and the entire time Lauretta sometimes… Averts her gaze, almost shyly. Which is interesting in and of itself, but what’s doubly interesting is how she sometimes looks at Marcus like she’s trying to decipher if his actions have any hidden meaning… Sometimes she flubs over her words, too.

Frea can’t help but muse about what she said to her some days ago.

_ “He’s just trying to impress you in the only way he knows how.” _

_ “Please be nicer to my brother. He’s trying.” _

She has to stifle a grin.  _ Did… Did Lauretta interpret that to mean that Marcus has a crush on her? _

...There’s no harm of letting that little misunderstanding continue on, is there? It’s fun watching Lauretta get flustered and not know how to act.

_ Oh, how evil of me. But she did say she was a maneater anyway. She’ll be fine. _

A quick glance at Aidan reveals he’s very happy with the development. Her gaze remains on him, and perhaps sensing that he turns to look at her. She doesn’t  _ really  _ mean to stare so brazenly, but a vague memory of some sort, that she doesn’t even remember learning, rears its head.

“Aren’t you taking art lessons with Nathaniel? How’s that going?”

Nathaniel, already on his third lantern, perks up at his name being uttered. “Yeah. He’s painting now, too. That reminds me, we need more canvases.” And he promptly returns to his work.

She’s about to ask permission to see his work, but Marcus makes a delighted noise and brings his hands together for a clap. Or he would have, but he quickly flicks his eyes at Nathaniel and just barely stops his hands making contact with one another.

“Ahem, that just gave me a marvelous idea. We should paint the lanterns! And— And,” He looks to and fro between Aidan and Nathaniel, “Why don’t we have a sleepover in this room tonight? Ah, men only!”

Nathaniel tilts his head. “Sleepover?”

“Yes, we can get blankets and pillows, enjoy some painting and maybe even share some ghost stories,” Marcus looks like the cat that got the cream, “That Dasir book you told me about has lots of interesting stories you can tell Aidan.”

Aidan nods his head vigorously, and Nathaniel shrugs— though he does murmur a soft, “...Sure, sounds like fun.”

Lauretta gasps dramatically, patting Frea’s shoulder. “Y’hear that? They’re tryin’ to get rid of us already.”

They share a chuckle, and when they settle back into routine with the lanterns, Aidan taps on Frea’s armrest.

_ <...Pictures?> _ He signs, his imploring bright green eyes reminiscent of Diana who’s currently asking for a biscuit, and it has the same effect of tugging on her heartstrings. Why does he have to ask like that? She doesn’t think he’s even intentionally doing this. That’s just how he looks whenever he asks for anything. Now  _ that’s _ just not fair.

She clears her throat. “Yeah, sure. You know where the camera is. You don’t really have to ask for permission, anyway.”

And he does take pictures. Several of them. Marcus insists on using the camera at points so that Aidan is in at least a few pictures before Frea reminds them that they have other servants who are perfectly capable of taking photos.

They talk about a variety of topics. Marcus brings out a board game and Lauretta completely dominates at the game. Laughter fills the air and Nathaniel makes another six lanterns. Aidan remains the primary photographer.

Lauretta has a passionate discussion with Diana on the merits of giving a dog a biscuit. The world around Frea ceases to exist completely as she settles herself comfortably in the bubble with her family and friends. It’s snug and comforting, and it’s an atmosphere she thinks she could indefinitely submerse herself within.

She really does wish Esme was here, too.

_ I could have lost this,  _ she thinks absentmindedly, though it’s followed by another thought that makes her agitated.

_ I could still lose this. _

A gnawing sense of restlessness stays with her for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Her restlessness gets to the point where she can no longer ignore it hours later. Frea twists and turns in her sleep, body thrashing until she awakes in the darkness of her bedroom. There is a prickling of her skin and with a blink, she discovers there are no photos on the ceiling.

_ No. _

In fact, her room is devoid of much of her personal effects. A glance to her side confirms her suspicions— She is still dreaming. It’s…  _ her _ again, this time seated on a chair a metre away from her bed. The other Frea but… but…

It’s different this time.

“Asnain is only as strong as its nobility. The nobility are only as strong as their heirs.”

Frea stiffens, limb locking up at how her mind’s spector stares at her impassively. There is none of that exaggerated sadistic glee and disdain, a manifestation of her persistent self-hatred. Instead the other Frea is almost… empty-like. Her expression speaks of nothing. Her voice is clear and absolute, barren of any infliction. Just— completely matter-of-fact.

_ Just like mother. _

She could laugh, really.  _ If I had been successful in mother’s lessons, would I be like this? With eyes as lifeless as a stuffed animal’s? _

And yet she doesn’t laugh. She cannot. Because anything akin to mother, even when it’s with a spector that shares the same face as her, scares Frea more than previous nightmares she’s ever had. 

The other Frea leans in. She looms.

“The Valentines have the blood of a holy wolf. If a pack member is weak, wolves abandon it. If a pack leader is weak, a stronger one will kill it. It’s all for the greater good for the collective.”

Her words linger in the air. Her eyes glance at Frea’s stumps.

“Useless decaying limbs are amputated.”

Yes, of course. These are all answers to questions she had been taught in her lessons ages ago. There’s a strange familiarity to them, but they also make her feel like she’s sinking, the pressure on chest making it difficult to breathe.

“When members of Asnain’s nobility and commoners prove themselves to be subpar, what happens? The Valentines get rid of them. Because they are as useless as a broken limb. They are as useless as a weak pack member.”

Ah, but it would appear that even her spector is not as good at hiding her emotions as mother, because a hint of loathing creeps in her voice.

“So why? Why is someone like you an heir to a family that should be the hunters?”

Frea swallows, her twin continuing with unhinged venom.

“Why, when you are someone that the Cult of Acadia would normally kill?”

Frea squeezes her eyes shut, if only for the miniscule insignificant comfort that blocking off the spector’s face brings, but she hears one final hateful comment that acts as salt on a burning wound.

“The Valentine name is wasted on you.”

When her eyes open, she is heaving. Her forehead is drenched with sweat and hands trembling, but the mere fact that she sees her photos tapes on her ceiling is enough to bring her a wave of comfort. A quick glance confirms the other Frea is no longer there, and she brings her hands to her face. Aidan isn’t here either, obviously. He must still be sleeping with Marcus and Nathaniel in the living room.

The nightmare was correct, of course.

The Valentine name  _ is  _ wasted on her. Any noble name would be. Even if she were a lowborn noble, she'd be a poor heir. It’s… It’s not a responsibility she desires. The thought reminds her of her cruel reality, hitting her like a sack of bricks. This estate is a prison with mother as her warden.

_ Just give her a baby. _

_ And then what? _

Would she still be able to live comfortably with the rest of her family? Would she be able to have gatherings together like she had tonight? Will she be able to be confident that Esme and Aidan can  _ also  _ live comfortably when she no longer has the threat of forcing a miscarriage on herself looming over mother’s head? Literally the only advantage she has is that… she can kill her own pregnancy if she’s desperate enough, and mother knows it.

Give mother another heir… and then what? And then what?  _ And then what?! _

_ If a pack leader is weak, a stronger one will kill it. _

It’s like someone is tearing apart the photos they had taken during lantern making in front of her, the remains being crushed under the heel of someone’s boot. Gatherings like that, of warmth and bonding… They will not last.

Not as long as she doesn’t stand up herself— for everyone else. 

She refuses to hide away in her bedsheets and whimper about her nightmare. She refuses to let her and everyone’s future hang in mother’s hands. She’s  _ not  _ as weak as mother thinks she is.

Frea doesn’t think she would be able to forgive herself if she went to the festival without telling her mother off. Her agitation forces her to sit up. As long as she has the energy and motivation… tonight is the night. She’ll make it so and refuses to back down like a dog with its tail between its legs. Not again.

She makes quick work of putting on her prosthetics, the adrenaline making her hands shake. 

_ I’m probably going to regret this. _

And yet that doesn’t stop her from getting her crutches and standing— almost falling back on the bed from how wobbly she is.

_ I should think about this more. Actually formulate some type of plan. _

Her steps toward the door are lumbering, awkward, and difficult. But her determination and sheer force of will drives her to carry on. She leans against her doorway to catch her breath, realizing the palms of her hands have become sweaty. 

_ I’m not ready for this. _

Frea looks at the stairs that sit right outside her room. They’ve never looked so  _ massive  _ before. Daunting in the truest sense of the word and she suddenly feels like a frantic mouse. She hears her own heart echo in her eardrums, and bites down on her lower lip hard enough that it bleeds.

Putting her crutches on the first step she attempts to climb the stairs before realizing she’s a goddamn  _ idiot  _ who’s putting of her fucking body weight on the crutches. She nearly topples over due to her center of gravity being completely wrong, but she just barely manages to stabilize herself with her other leg.

_ Fucking hell,  _ she exhales a breath of herm her lips forming in a wry smirk when she grabs onto a thought that’s completely irrelevant to the matter at hand,  _ When did I become such a potty mouth? _

“Come on, Frea,” she grunts out, “Use your new feet. It’s what they’re there for.”

She completely ignores how her overworked muscles already burn from exhaustion, and sweat trickles down her brow. Oh, Dr. Kippe and Lauretta are absolutely going to let her have it when they find out what she’s doing. Going up the stairs for the first time completely on her own? They might as well skin her alive.

And that’s not even mentioning how this is the first time she’s even using her crutches. They’re absolutely going to kill her.

But, she figures she’s gone too far to stop now, no matter how much her body may protest. She figures she’s going to be bedridden for a good couple of days after this.

Frea does another attempt to get on the first step, this time being successful, though her confidence is quickly dwindling when she sees how much is left. The stairs somehow look bigger than before.

Thoughts of her losing balance invades her mind. If she topples over how she probably wouldn’t be able to catch herself, and what an end would that be. Snapping her neck in a fruitless attempt to go yell at her own mother? Maybe… Maybe she should go back to bed while she still has the chance…

“Who— Oh! Lady Valentine, are you alright?”

Frea blinks, snapping her head up to see a worried looking Saskia coming down her stairs. 

“My Lady, what on earth are you doing…?”

Frea’s lips quiver, grip tightening on her crutches. The frustration crashes on her in waves and her vision begins to grow misty, so she tightly shuts her eyes.

“I… I can’t…” she chokes out, “I can’t get up the stairs by myself…”

Why does admitting it have to be so embarrassing? Of course she can’t do it by herself yet. It’s barely been a week. It’s a fucking miracle she hasn’t fallen yet.

“Do you need someone from upstairs? I’ll go get it for you, but first let me get you back to bed—”

“No, I need to speak with my mother.”

Saskia frowns. “I can go get her for you.”

Frea shakes her head, jaw tense. 

“I need to speak with her in her study. I just have to.”

Saskia’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything else other than a soft, “Alright.” She gently holds her bicep, with her hand supporting Frea’s back. The entire trek, ordinarily so  _ simple  _ and  _ short,  _ is a constant concentrated effort and takes several minutes because she needs a break. 

Eventually, she is unsure if the breaks are for her body, or because her anxiety is making her too nervous. 

Leaning on the wall, she pants heavily, body shaking. When Saskia knocks on the door to mother’s study, she forces herself to straighten her back and attempts to steady her breathing. She doesn’t miss how the house steward glances back at her nervously.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of my daughter coming all the way here?”

Mother wears a plain white button up shirt with black pants. Her usually braided hair is undone, and upon the bridge of her nose is her reading glasses. Her expression is the same as the specter in her nightmare, devoid of anything that tells Frea her thoughts. Eyes so dull and dead.

Frea grinds her teeth.

“You and I need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frea, while pointing a camera at her mother: *snap* yep. this one's going in my cringe compilation.


End file.
